NEW 


W,LUAMDEVERE 

"TfcAMP  Porr  OF  me  Wear" 


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•  II 


MMMR 


HP 
•MM 


WILLIAM    DEVERE, 
"TRAMP  POET  OF  THE  WEST. 


JlM  MARSHALL'S 

NEW  PlANNER 


AND 


OTHER  WESTERN 
STORIES. 

(SPECIALLY  £pAPT7£>  FOR  PUSUtC  READING.) 

WILLIAM   DEVERE, 

"TRAMP  POET  OF  THE  WEST," 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS     BY    DOLPH    LKVINO     AND 
J.     MORNINGSTAR. 


M.  WITMARK  &  SONS, 

NEW  YORK,  CHICAGO  AND  LONDON. 
1897. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the 
year  1897,  by     .    . 

M.  WITMARK'&  SONS, 

in  the  office' of  vi*>  Li.biciran  of  Congress,   at 
Washington,  D.  C. 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED.  ENGLISH  COPYRIGHT  SECURED. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Black  Hills  Sermon  (A) 57-63 

B.  P.  O.  B 116-118 

'Ceptin'  Ike 64-69 

Charity,  Justice,  Brotherly  Love  and  Fidelity  119-121 

Case  Equal  (A) 122-125 

Give  the  Devil  his  Due 55-  56 

Hey,  Rube , 19-21 

Higgins.  .  ' 22-  30 

He  Can — Like  Kelly  Can 43-  45 

His  Letter 46-  49 

Horse  Philosophy ,        .     70-  74 

Jim  Marshall' s  New  Pianner  .    ......      6-13 

Jeff  and  Joe 109-115 

Kinder  Susp'shus 33-  36 

No  Opening — Write  Again 78-86 

Offty   Gooffs  Methuselahism 31-32 

Parson's  Box  (The) 37-42 

Queen  of  Hearts  (The) 103-105 

Roger -  99-102 

Spokane 129-  130 

That  Queen 75-77 

Throw  the  Inkstand  at  'em,  Johnny  ....     87-  89 

Two  Little  Busted  Shoes 90-  95 

Ten  Mile  or  Bust 96-98 

Tragedy  (A) 105 

That  Beautiful  Snow 106-108 

Walk 50-54 

What  t'  'ell 126-128 

You're  jest  like  yer  Mother,  Mandy  ...    .     14-18 


939861 


TO  MY  ILLUSTRATORS. 


DOLPH  LEVINO,  Esq., 

DEAR  FRIEND  : — You  have  grasped  the  true 
inspiration  of  western  humor,  and  your  illustra 
tions  (while  they  are  but  the  reproduction  of  scenes 
familiar  to  yourself  > ,  are  j  ust  the  very  thing  needed 
to  vivify  these  wild  and  uncouth  stories.  I  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  your  fidelity 
to  detail,  and  with  best  wishes  for  you  and  yours, 

I  am, 

Your  friend, 

WM.   DKVERE. 


MR.  J.   MORNINGSTAR, 

DEAR  SIR  : — I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you  foi 
your  fine  sketches,  illustrations  of  life  in  the  west, 
contributed  to  this  little  book.  They  are  in  the  right 
spirit  and  evince  an  artistic  skill  that  is  gratefully 
acknowledged  by 

Yours  sincerely, 

WM.   DEVERE. 


PREFACE. 


KIND  RKADKR : 

This  humble  volume  is  intended  to  be  simply  a 
rough  chronicle  of  some  vivified  wild  and  wooly 
western  stories,  and  is  based  upon  events  that  have 
occurred  in  the  sub-strata  of  western  life.  The 
characters,  as  well  as  the  incidents,  are  all  true, 
as  can  be  attested  by  many  of  my  readers.  I  make 
no  apology  for  the  vernacular,  the  diction  or  the 
syntax,  and  if  among  the  debris  you  can  extract  a 
few  grains  of  pure  gold,  my  mission  will  have  been 
accomplished.  Some  of  my  characters  are  still 
living.  The  most  of  them  occupy  positions  of  trust, 
some  few  of  them  are  still  prospecting  in  the 
Rockies  or  on  the  deserts  of  the  Wild  West.  Some 
sleep  in  unmarked  graves  upon  the  mountain  side 
amid  the  crooning  of  the  Pignon  Pines.  They 
were  all  my  friends.  I  knew  no  bad  men  in  the 
west ;  they  all  had  many  good  traits  about  them, 
and  the  roughest  of  them  were  the  most  charitable. 
They  made  unchronicled  history.  The  history  of 
the  mining  camp  is  nearly  obsolete.  We  may  find  a 
few  that  are  reached  by  rail,  but  the  old  mining 
camp  reached  by  the  Concord  Coach  or  the  "Freigh 
ter"  is  fast  passing  away.  To  the  living  actors 
who  took  part  in  those  scenes  this  book  will  bring 
many  a  kind  remembrance,  and  to  them,  with  all  of 
its  imperfections,  I  bequeath  it. 

WM.   DKVKRK. 

New  York  City,  May  1,  1897. 


JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW 


JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNER. 

Wrf__sjl.J 

fllllllfHni!!!!!  WAS  'way  above  the  old  San  Juan  that 

illlilllllllfll  IILUJIILU 

me  and  big  Bud  Beedles 
Located — near  the  San  Miguil — a  camp 

we  called  "The  Needles." 
There  wasn't   many  on   us  there, 
Tom    Kane,    and    Tim     McCarty,    Cap     Flagler, 

Riley  Lambert,  and  Lish  Rowe  made  up  the 

party 

To  celebrate  a  grand  event,  as  ever  you  sot  eyes  on, 
In  Tommy  Gretto's  little  tent,  where  he  dispensed 

the  pizen. 
Jim  Marshall  'd  been  plugged  up  by  some  on  us  to 

go  and  send  for 
A  bran  new  pianna  fortay,  and  bring  it  up  from 

Denver. 

Zeb  Taylor,  a  Missourian,  as  miserable  a  sinner 
As  ever  crossed  the  Cimmaron,  or  posed  as  a  "mule 

skinner, ' ' 
Had  brought  the  box  from  Silverton,   right  thro' 

in  his  freight  wagon, 
And  we  turned  out  to  celebrate  its  advent,  with 

a  jag  on. 


JIM   MARSH AU/S    NEW   PIANNER 

Walt  Fletcher,  a  darned  lively  cuss,  as  funny  and 

as  frisky, 
Who  at  the  best   done   nothing  wuss  than  punish 

barb- wire  whisky; 
Clabe,    Jones,    Tom    Hudson,    Burrill  Wade,  Old 

Creek  and  Tommy  Tanner, 
Was  members   of   the  committee,  to  welcome  the 

Pianner. 
We  all  dropped   into  Gretto's  tent,  first  one  and 

then  the  t'other. 
We   put  away  one   poultice,     and  then   paralyzed 

another, 
We   opened  up  the  box  and  we  tore  off  the  paper 

1'ning, 
And  there  the  new  Pianner  stood,  a-glistening  and 

a-shining. 

We  sot  it  in  the  corner,  just  as  tender  as  a  brother, 
And  then  we  took  another  drink,  and  then — we  took 

another. 
And  Walter  Fletcher,    he  remarked   ' 'as  how  he'd 

hate  to  say  it, 
We'd  got  an  elephant,  for  not  a  cuss  know'd  how 

to  play  it." 
Clabe   Jones,    allowed   that  "he  would  sing,  if  we 

could  find  a  fakir. ' ' 
But  none  of  us  dare  touch  the  thing,  for  if  we  did, 

we'd  break  her. 
And  Burrill  Wade,  he  said  that  "back  in  Maine  he 

had  a  sister 
That  could  play  the  Suannee  River  till  'would  knock 

us  alia  twister." 


AND   OTHER   STORIES.  9 

Lish  Rowe  allowed  "he  know'd  a  gal  'tcould  play 

the  'Maiden's  Prayer' 
Till  you  could   close   your  eyes  and  swar  you'd 

climbed  the  'Golden  Stair.'  " 
But  just  about   this  minute  something  happened, 

that  I  think 
Would  make  Salvation  Army  saints  swar  off  and 

take  to  drink. 
Tom's  tent  front  door  blew  open,  and  a  figger  hove 

in  sight 
That  made  each  one  of  us  to  doubt  it  if  we  was  just 

all  right. 

A  cuss,  dressed  in  a  canvas  coat,  a  hat  cut  filagree, 
A  pair  of  pants,  half-soled  and  heeled,  a  shirt  d — d 

negligee, 

His  nose,  like  a  peeled  onion,  a  regular  cherry  red, 
And  eyes  all  bleared  and  bloodshot,  seemed  a  bustin' 

from  his  head, 
A  regular  mountain  nomad,  whom  nobody  knew  in 

camp, 
The  ne  plus  ultra  specimen  of  a   biped  called  the 

tramp. 
We  looked  at  him,  he  looked  at  us,  and  then  his 

gaze  turned  whar, 
Six  glasses  of  red  licker  stood,  on  Tommy  Gretto's 

bar, 
He  landed  one  beneath  his  belt,  just  like  a  mornin' 

bracer, 
And  then  another  followed  suit,  wo't  L,ish  Row'd 

call  a  "chaser," 


10  JIM    MARSH AU/S   NKW   PIANNER 


AND   OTHER  STORIES.  II 

Then,  wiping  off  his  lips  with  an  old  ragged,  red 

bandanna, 

He  planked  himself  right  down  in  front  of  Mar 
shall's  new  pianner. 
None  on  us  spoke,  we   held  our   breath,  for  just 

about  a  minute, 
And  when  he  hit  them  ivories  we  all  knowed  that 

he  was  in  it. 
He  thundered  off  "Boulanger's  March,"  you  bet,  it 

was  a  daisy. 
And   then   he  hit  a   reel  that   nigh  knocked  Tim 

McCarty  crazy. 
And  then  he  run  the  gamut  up  to  "Comin'  Thro' 

the  Rye," 
And  played  "Stick  to  Your  Mother,   Tom,"  until 

he  made  us  cry ; 
"The   Gates   Ajar"   until   I'd  swear  I   heard    the 

angels  singin' , 
Then  with  old  "Johnny  Get  Your  Gun"  he  sot  the 

rafters  ringin', 
He  played   "The  Song  that  Reached  My  Heart," 

till  Burrill  Wade  went  loony 
He  rattled   "Playmates"  off ,  and  then  he  switched 

to  "Annie  Rooney." 

At  handlin'  Mendelsohn,  you  can  bet   he  was  a  lily. 
He  resurrected  "Wagner,"  and  knocked  old  "Blind 

Tom"  silly. 
He  played  "The  Sad  Sea  Waves"  until  you'd  think 

you  heard  them  sobbin' , 
And  then  he  trilled   that   "Old    Scotch   Air"    of 

"Won't  You  Tell  Me,  Robin," 


12  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 

He  swayed  around  the   " Blue  Danube"   and   "Old 

Waldtyfle"  too, 
Then    "The   Star  Spangled  Banner"    and   the  old 

"Red,  White  and  Blue." 
He  wandered  thro'  "The  Miserere,"  and  thundered 

the  "TeDeum." 

Until  I  thought  of  "Eddie  Pleiss"  and  Hank  Cline's 

Coliseum. 
He  played  a  skit  from   "Aida,"   that  just  woke  up 

"Tommy  Gretto," 

Who  hollered  out  "Bravissimo,  Decapo,  Allegretto." 
He  thundered  o'er  the  treble,  with  a  rattle  and  a 

roar, 
We  heard  a  crash,    and  like  a  flash,  he  vanished 

thro'  the  door 
We  made  a  rush  to  stop  him,  but  he  vamoosed  in  a. 

wink, 
We  stood   a  moment  dumbfounded,  and  then — we 

took  a  drink. 


The  Needles  camp  is  busted,  "Burrell  Wade's"  in 
Kansas  City, 

"Tom  Kane"  shot  "Riley  Lambert,"  and  was 
"strangled,"  more's  the  pity, 

"Clabe  Jones"  is  down  in  Mexico,  a  stealin'  Texas 
meat, 

And  "Walter Fletcher's"  writin'  songs  in  Forty- 
seventh  street. 


AND  OTHER  STORIES.  13 

"Cap.  Flagler's  in  Durango,  I  am  dallying  with  the 

drama, 
"Jim  Marshall's  jumpin'    corner  lots,  way  down  in 

Oklohoma, 
"Ivish  Rowe"   he  takes  his  Bourbon  straight,  when 

he  goes  on  a  bust, 
"Tom  Gretto's"  out  in  'Frisco,  still  looking  for  the 

dust, 
"Old  Creek"  is  up  in  Ogden,  and  the  saints  snared 

"Tommy  Tanner," 
An  da  dance  hall  up  in  Rico  captured   Marshall's 

"New  Planner." 


14  JIM  MARSHAL'S  NEW  PIANNER 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  15 


"YOU'RE  JEST  LIKE  YER  MOTHER, 
MANDY." 

To  T.  J.  O'Neil,  Esq.,  of  Portland,  Maine. 

OU'RK  jest  like  yer  mother,   Mandy, 

an'  most  allus  hev  yer  way, 
So  you're  going  down  to  the  city,  an' 

a  goin'  down  there  to  stay; 
Wall,  mebbe  it's  fur   the  best;  but 
then  the  sun  wont  shine  so  bright, 
For  after  you're  gone  away,  gal,    I'll  miss  you  day 

an'  night. 
But  you  say  you're  tired  of  ploddin'  an'  worrin'  all 

the  day. 

An'  you're  jest  like  yer  mother,  Mandy,  an'  most 
allus  hev  yer  way. 

Speakhr   about  yer  mother,   the   mornin'    that  she 

died 
I  went  in  the  big  front  bed  room,  an'  I  knelt  down 

by  her  side. 


1 6  JIM   MARSHALL'S   NEW   PIANNKR 

An'  I  asked  the  good  Lord  to  spare  her  an'  to  leave 

her  for  me  to  love, 
But  I  reckon  he  kinder  needed  her  in  the  mansion 

up  above. 
She  'lowed  she  thought  'twas  better  for  her  to  go 

than  stay, 
An'  you're  jest  like  yer  mother,  Mandy,   an'  most 

allus  hev  yer  way. 

She  said  that   the  good  Lord  willed  it,  an'  she  said 

4 'His  will  be  done," 
Then  she  asked  me  to  shove  the  curtains  back  and 

let  in  the  warm  bright  sun. 
So't  she  could  look  at  the  dear  green  fields  whar  she 

had  passed  her  life 
Ever  since  the   day  old  Parson  Brown  pronounced 

us  man  an'  wife. 
An'  she  told   me  to  guard  an'  protect  you,  an'  to 

cherish  you  every  day, 
But  you're  just  like  yer  mothei,   Mandy,  an'  most 

allus  hev  yer  way. 

I  promised  her  I'd  guard  ye  an'  protect  ye  from  all 

harm, 
Then  I  felt  her   tears  a  streamin'    down  over  my 

cheeks  so  warm. 
An'  then  she  tried  to  comfort  me   an'    whispered 

" God  is  love," 
An'  when   I  arose  your  mother  had  gone  to  the 

Saviour  up  above. 


AND   OTHER   STORIES.  17 

Since  then  you've  been  my  comfort,    but   you're 

goin'  away  to  stay, 
Fur  you're   jest  like  yer  mother,  Handy,  an'  most 

allus  hev  yer  way. 


I've  worked  an'  toiled  fur  forty  }7ear  to  try  an'  im 
prove  the  farm, 

Fur  I  wanted  to  have  a  home  for  you  to  protect  you 
from  all  harm, 

I've  toiled  an'  sweat  in  the  harvest  field  when  the 
summer  days  was  hot, 

A  tryin'  to  fight  a  mortgage  off'n  an  eighty  acre 
lot. 

An'  now  it  all  belongs  to  you,  you're  just  eighteen 
to-day, 

An'  you're  jest  like  yer  mother,  Mandy,  an'  most 
allus  hev  yer  way. 

Of  course  you'll  be  happier,  Mandy,  in  your  bright 

new  city  home, 
An'  you'll  larn   to  forget  your  poor  old  dad  that's 

sorrowin'  here  alone, 
You'll  meet  up  with  companions  who  will  be  more 

to  your  mind, 
An'  perhaps  you'll  forget  yer  mother's  grave  an' 

the  friends  you  have  left  behind. 
But  my  blessin's  shall  go  with  you  an'  protect  you 

where  you  stray, 
Fur  you're  jest  like  yer  mother,  Mandy,  an'  most 

allus  hev  yer  way. 


1 8  JIM   MARSH AU/S   NEW  PIANNER 

What's  that?     You  aint  goin',  Mandy,  jest  foolin', 

eh?     I'm  so  glad, 
Well,  this  will  be   the  happiest  day  your  old  dad 

ever  had, 
An'  I  believe  yer  mother's  spirit  looks  down  on  us 

from  above, 
An'    I  seem  to   hear  her  angel  voice  a  whisperin' 

"God  is  love." 
What's   that?      You'll  never   leave    me?       You'll 

always  with  me  stay, 
Wai,  you're  jest  like  yer  mother,  Mandy,  an'  most 

allus  hev  yer  way. 


AND   OTHER  STORIES. 


HEY  RUBE. 


[NoTE. — Hey  Rube  is  the  war-cry  with  a  Circus 
which  calls  every  man  to  tjie  scene  of  action. 


WAS  just  about  ten  years  ago, 
Too  early  yet  for  ice  or  snow, 
Thro'    bounteous     Texas    coming 

down, 
A  circus  with  a  funny  clown, 

"  Hey  Rube." 


20  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNER 

The  boys  warn't  feeling  very  well, 

The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell, 

And  as  they  "made"  each  little  town 

They  whispered   (when  the    ' '  gawks ' '    came 

>round)  "  Hey  Rube." 

They  didn't  say  it,  mind  you  now, 
But  if  you  scanned  each  frowning  brow, 
When  pestered  by  some  "  Budgy  guy" 
You'd  almost  read  it  in  their  eye, 

"Hey  Rube.' 

It's  but  a  little  phrase,  'tis  true, 
Its  meaning  well  each  "fakir"  knew, 
And  e'en  the  weakest  heart  was  stirred 
At  mention  of  that  magic  word, 

"Hey  Rube." 

"They'll  eat  you  up  in  this  'ere  town, 
The  boys' 11  tear  you  circus  down." 
Thus  spoke  a  man  with  hoary  head, 
The  "main  guy"  winked  and  softly  said, 

"Hey  Rube." 

They  gathered  'round,  about  two  score, 
I  am  not  sure  but  there  were  more, 
Red-hot  and  eager  for  the  fray, 
The  boys  all  thought,  but  didn't  say, 

"Hey  Rube." 

The  ball  was  opened,  like  a  flash. 
Above  the  battle's  din  and  dash, 
As  thunderbolt  hurled  from  the  sky, 
Rang  long  and  loud  the  battle-cry, 

"Hey  Rube." 


AND  OTHER  STORIBS.  21 

'Twas  but  a  moment — in  they  went, 
Bach,  man  on  life  and  death  intent. 
They  periled  there  both  life  and  limb, 
'Twas  wonderful  to  hear  them  sing, 

"Hey  Rube." 

'Twas  finished,  the  smoke  rolled  away, 
As  clouds  before  the  sun's  bright  ray. 
That  Texan  chivalry  were  gone — 
They  couldn'  t  sing  that  circus  song, 

"Hey  Rube." 

MORAIy. 

"Gawks,"    "guys"  and  "Rubes"  another  day, 
When  e'er  a  circus  comes  your  way, 
And  you  are  spilein*  for  a  ' '  clim," 
Be  sure  they  haven't  learned  to  sing, 

"Hey  Rube." 


22  JIM    MARSHAIJ/S    NEW    PIANNKR 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  23 


HIGGINS. 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED  TO  "Ai,"  SMITH,  ESQ. 

Know  Higgins,  Tom  Higgins  of  Lewiston  ? 

That  old  Bohemian  "Son  of  a  Gun," 

I  reckon  I  did,  and  I'll  say  right  here, 

That  Higgins  could  drop,  from  wine,  to  beer, 

With  the  easy  grace  of  a  millionaire, 

And  a  smile  that  was  bright,  and  debonair e, 

He  could  play  two  deuces  pat  at  bluff, 

Could  "  crack  a  bottle,"  or  "  blow  his  stuff," 

A  Chesterfield  in  the  dance's  whirl, 

For  he  loved  a  horse,  and  adored  a  girl. 

His  early  life  had  been  passed  out  West, 

Where  each  man  reaches  his  level  best. 

*And  I  heard  an  old  timer  from  out  there  say, 
That  Higgins  was  riding  along  one  day, 
Down  near  the  foot  of  I^a  Vita  pass, 
His  Broncho  nipping  the  Buffalo  grass, 
That  grew  by  the  trail  on  the  mottled  sod, 
When  a  half  breed  known  as  <c  Cherokee  Bob/' 
Came  riding  along  the  other  way. 
And  he  stopped,  and  bantered  Higgins  to  play 

*This  don't  go  if  Higgins  sees  It 


$4  JIM      MARSHAL!/ S   NKW  PIANNKR 

A  little  game  for  money  or  blood, 

That  was  known  down  there,  as  ' '  round  table  stud." 

Now  I  said  that  Higgins  was  always  game, 

And  the   "  Cherookee  "     'd  hardly  gave  it  a  name, 

When  Higgins  swung  from  his  saddle  tree, 

With  the  simple  remark  of  ' '  That  means  me. ' ' 

With  a  Navajo  blanket  spread  out  on  the  ground, 

And  a  pack  of  cards,  they  both  sat  down. 

They  cut  for  the  deal,  and  Higgins  won, 

And  the  cards  were  shuffled,  the  game  begun. 

Cherokee  Bob  scanned  his  buried  card, 

With  never  a  trace  on  his  visage  hard. 

Next  a  six  showed  up,  and  for  Higgins  a  Tray, 

The  half  breed  cautiously  made  a  play, 

It  was  called  by  Higgins,  who  dealt  once  more, 

When  the  Cherokee  got  "  an  ace  in  the  door," 

And  the  half  breed  made  a  brash  to  play, 

When  Higgins  turned  over  another  tray. 

Two  trays  in  sight,  it  was  Higgins  bet, 

With  a  nervous  pull  at  his  cigarette, 

He  gently  said  * '  I  will  bet  my  all, 

Cash,  broncho,  pistols,  you  dare  not  call," 

But  the  Cherokee  quietly  smiled  at  that, 

And  remarked,  "  Well,  I'll  tap  you  for  blanket  and 

;  hat." 

Off  came  the  hat,  and  the  blanket  went  in, 
Either  one  or  the  other  must  lose  or  win. 
Higgins  knew  naught  of  the  Roentgen's  rays, 
That  the  half  breed's  buried  card  beat  two  Trays. 


AND  OTHKR   STORIES. 


So  he  finished  the  deal,  didn't  better  his  hand, 
And  the  Cherokee  sitting  there  smiling  and  bland, 
Turned  over  an  ace  as  he  finished  the  play, 
Then  packed  up  his  plunder,  and  rode  away. 


And  remarked  to  Higgins,  as  he  looked  back, 
"  It  is  better  walking  the  right  hand  track." 
But  Higgins,  sorrowfully  scratched  his  head, 
Few  and  short  were  the  words  he  said. 
You  see  he  wasn't  much  given  to  talk, 
And  he  muttered,  "  Walk,  you  sucker,  walk." 
And  in  after  years,  when  the  story  he  told, 
Of  this  game  of  "  stud  "  in  the  land  of  gold," 
Where  "  Charley  Sumner,"  and  "Maxwell"  and 

'•Kim," 

And  "  Kitty  O'Connell  "  perhaps  dropped  in, 
With  "  Thompson,"  "  The  Spider,"  and  "  Old  Jim 

Cobb," 
That  he  thought  that  the  half  breed  was  only  a 

slob. 


26  JIM    MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 


.; 

AND   OTHER  STORIES.  27 

But  would  never  again  bet  two  Trays  so  hard, 

Unless  he  was  ' '  next  to  the  buried  card. ' ' 

And  he  said  that  he  felt  as  he  walked  away, 

Across  the  plains,  on  that  sunny  day, 

That  if  he  had  only  a  mask  and  a  gun, 

He  would  open  a  game  in  which  he  could  have  won, 

And  would  hold  up  a  stage  outside  the  town, 

And  compel  them  to  throw  the  strong  box  down. 

But  one  more  story  I'm  going  to  tell, 

A  hard  luck  story,  that  once  befell, 

Tom  Higgins  in  Maine,  at  Old  Orchard  Beach, 

A  place  that  the  tourist  loves  to  reach, 

When  the  game  closed. 

The  lights  burned  brightly  overhead, 

The  table,  whereon  the  layout  was  spread, 

And  the  players  nervously  shuffled  their  checks, 

Some  looking  cheery,  and  others  vexed, 

While  the  ' '  lookout ' '  lazily  lolled  in  his  chair, 

And  his  cigarette  smoke  melted  into  the  air 

Of  the  spacious  room,  while  the  busy  click, 

Of  the  casekeeper,  like  a  watch's  tick., 

Told  off  the  cards,  as  they  lost,  or  won, 

And  the  dealer,  sitting  there  silent  and  glum, 

Dealt,  paid,  and  took  as  the  bets  were  laid, 

And  never  a  tremor  his  feelings  betrayed 

But  Higgins — I  started  to  speak  of  him, 

In  front  of  the  dealer  cool  and  grim, 

Was  playing  the  limit  at  every  turn, 

To  doubles  and  single,  his  bright  eyes  burn, 

With  anticipation  of  what  he'll  do, 

When  he's  won  them  all,  every  red,  white  and  blue; 


28  JIM   MARSHAU/S    NKW   PIANNEJR 

Of  the  bottles  he'll  crack,  of  the  songs  he'll  sing, 

And  of  Maudies's  laugh  with  its  merry  ring, 

As  they  sit  vis-a-vis  and  they  merrily  sip, 

Of  the  sparling  Champagne  that  caresses  the  lip 

Of  the  loveliest  creature  beneath  the  Sun, 

The  one  that  he  loves,  and  the  only  one, 

For  so  he  believes,  while  her  arms  entwine, 

And  Her  lips  bedewed  with  the  rosy  wine, 

Are  pressed  to  his,  in  one  mad  caress, 

One  moment  of  Heavenly  blessedness 

While  her  bosom  heaves,  and  his  senses  reel, 

And  her  ivory  arms  around  him  steal, 

And  Maudie  swears  she  loves  only  him, 

And  the  bubbles  dance  on  the  wine  glass  brim, 

As  they  pledge  each  other  in  seething  wine, 

And  float  in  an  ecstacy  divine, 

Another  deluge  of  pink  champagne, 

And  they  pledge  each  other  again  and,  again, 

While  Maudie — warbling  an  aria  clear, — 

Is  striving  to  kick  the  chandelier, 

And  the  rustling  swish  of  the  filmy  lace, 

Is  swirling  and  whirling  around  the  place, 

As  she  sways  and  whirls  and  piroettes, 

Through  the  curling  smoke  of  the  cigarettes, 

Until  quite  o'ercome  with  display  of   charms, 

She  falls  with  a  sigh  into  Higgins  arms, 

And  forgets  the  world,  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 

And  one  long  lingering  loving  kiss,  and  the  game 

closed. 

But  Higgins — I  wanted  to  speak  of  him, — 
The  Mohammedan  heaven  that  he  was  in, 


AND   OTHER  STORIES.  29 

Had  vanished  away  to  a  little  speck, 
For  he  found  he  had  only  one  red  check,  when  the 
game  closed. 

Only  one  red  check,  just  to  represent 
The  follies  and  ills  of  a  life  misspent, 
How  many  hopes  and  how  many  fears, 
How  many  blessings,  how  many  tears, 
How  many  fortunes  and  how  many  ills, 
How  many  dollars  and  how  many  mills, 
How  many  beginnings,  how  many  ends, 
How  many  enemies,  how  many  friends, 
How  many  murders,  how  many  lives, 
How  many  sweethearts  and  how  many  wives. 
How  many  smiles,  and  how  many  sighs, 
How  many  truths,  and  how  many  lies, 
How  many  kisses,  how  many  frowns, 
How  many  ups,  and  how  many  downs, 
All  that  we  hope  for,  or  have,  or  expect, 
Were  centered  alone  in  this  one  red  check,  when 
the  game  closed. 

And  Higgins,  (its  funny  I  drift  from  my  theme, 

And  float  off  in  some  philosophic  dream,) 

Well,  Higgins!  cooly  picked  up  the  red  check, 

And  walked  from  the  room,  with  a  carriage  erect. 

Cash  In!  Ah  no,  for  that  one  red  check, 

Must  represent  a  financial  wreck, 

He'd  keep  it  for  thoughts  that  he  once  had  prized, 

For  dreams  that  he  never  had  realized, 

For  seeds  of  sin  that  he'd  often  sown, 

For  hopes  that  were  hopeless,  and  turned  to  stone, 


30  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

And  he  sauntered  down  to  the  ocean's  brink, 
And  sat  down  a  moment  to  ponder  and  think, 
There  he  fell  asleep  and  he  dreamed  of  the  girl, 
With  the  starlit  eye,  and  the  shimmering  curl, 
Of  Maudie  the  all  in  all  to  him, 
An  hour  passed  on  and  the  tide  came  in, 
And  stole  around  his  weary  feet 
But  still  he  dreamed  of  a  bliss  complete, 
Rich,  or  poor,  but  little  he'd  reck, 
This  slumbering  dreamer,  with  one  red  check, 
the  game  closed. 


AND    OTHER    STORIES.  31 


'OFFTY  COOFT'S  METHUSELAHISM." 


OST  thou  remember  the  happy  hours, 
When  I  was  thy  youthful  beau, 
How  we  laughed  and  chaffed  in  the 

daisy  bowers, 
Eight  hundred  Years  ago? 


When  the  brightest  of  futures  before  us  lay, 
One  hopeful  delicious  track, 
And  I  was  a  dude  not  a  bit  blase 
A  few  trifling  centuries  back? 

Can' st  thou  recall  the  fond  days  of  yore, 
Our  travels  on  land  and  sea, 
When  I  was  a  hundred  and  and  twenty- four 
And  you  were  just  ninety- three? 

Can' st  thou  summon  up  in  thy  mind  afresh 
The  charms  of  our  love  divine, 
When  you  were  a  hundred  and  eighty-two 
And  I  was  two  hundred  and  nine? 

Ah,  then  did  our  love  supremely  thrive, 
We  lived  in  a  mutual  heaven, 
When  you  were  three  hundred  and  eighty-five, 
And  I  was  four  hundred  and  seven. 


32  JIM   MARSHALL'S    NEW   PIANNBR 

Can'st  thou  remember  the  happy  days, 
For  old  age  makes  memory  sad, 
When  you  were  about  eight  hundred  and  eight, 
The  first  kick  that  we  ever  had. 

When  upon  my  head  you  broke  a  plate, 

A  job  that  was  neatly  done, 

In  the  year  of  your  life,  eight  hundred  and  eight, 

And  of  mine  nine  hundred  and  one? 

But  we're  nearing  the  thousand  now, my  dear, 

We  no  longer  are  young  and  strong. 

Old  age  is  beginning  to  tell,  I  fear 

That  we  cannot  linger  long. 

Those  happy  days  are  forever  passed, 
The  happiest  bards  have  sung, 
And  I  see  death  coming  with  mind  aghast 
For  its  sad  to  die  so  young. 


AND  OTHER  STORIES.  33 


KINDER  SUSP'SHUS. 


[B  oughtn't    a  dun  it.      It  wasn't  jest 

right, 
But  wen  he  dropped  inter  ther  Camp 

on  that  night, 
Some  one  on  the  gang  made  a  quiet 
remark 
'T  he  wasn't  a  miner  'rwasn't  a  shark, 

But  he  looked  kinder  susp'shus. 

He'd  legs  all  the  world  like  a  Sandy  Hill  crane, 
An'  his  head  wuz  bare- footed,  denotin'  no  brain; 
He  wuz  wearin*   dude  clothes,  an'   had  on  striped 

socks, 

An'  over  his  shoulder  he'd  slung  a  black  box 
That  looked  kinder  susp'shus. 

He  throwed  down  two  bits  on  I^em  Givison's  bar, 
An*  asked  fur  a  Key  West  Estrellar  cigar; 
An'  then  he  sot-down  in  the  corner  to  rest, 
An'  he  pushed  that  black  box  right  in  front  of  his 
breast, 

Which  looked  kinder  susp'shus. 


JIM   MARSHALL'S   NEW   PIANNER 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


35 


36  JIM   MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNER 

An*  argument  riz  about  "round  table  stud," 
Which  looked  ez  if  it  might  hev  ended  in  blood. 
Each  man  hed  hiz  eye  right  on  the  other  one, 
An'  every  man  thar  hed  hiz  han'  on  Liz  gun, 

An'  it  looked  kinder  susp'shus. 

The  room  wuz  so  still,  you  could  hear  a  watch  tick, 
When  that  feller's  black  box  gin  a  sharp,  sudden 

click, 

An'  ten  "forty-five's"  opened  out  with  a  roar, 
An'  the  remnants  were  scattered  around  on  the  floor, 
An'  it  looked  kinder  susp'shus. 

We  buried  the  pieces,  all  that  we  could  see, 
Out  thar  in  the  gulch,  by  that  old  pi'non  tree, 
With  a  card  from  his  pocket, — itsstickin'  thar  yet — 
"Snap  Kodak  Artist,  Gazootville  Gazette," 

An'  it  looks  kinder  susp'shus. 


AND  OTHER  STORIES.  37 


'THE  PARSON'S  BOX.' 

A   TAI,E   OF  THE  SAN  JUAN. 

NOWED    Parson    Hogue,    well    I 

should  say, 

I  saw  the  parson  the  very  day 
He    sot    his    foot   in   the    Bank 

Exchange 

And  asked  Jess  Potts  from  across  the  range, 
How  business  was  and  I  heard  Jess  say 
That  he  hadn't  turned  a  card  that  day. 
There  was  " Curly  McBride,"  who  ran  the  wheel, 
And  "Fletch"  at  the  tub  hadn't  made  a  spiel, 
Old  "Sarge"  who'd  sot  there  many  a  night, 
With  ace  in  the  hole,  and  the  cuter  in  sight, 
And  old  Jim  Pencel  and  Jim  McCabe 
With  "  Nutshell  Bill"  and  Burrill  Wade, 
Jim  Russell  (the  lawyer)  who'd  play  a  hand 
Or  plead  a  case  for  the  Rio  Grande. 
Big  "Tex,"  "Ike  Stockton,"  who  stood  off  "Coe," 
When  he  brought  the  gang  from  New  Mexico, 
To  take  "Hargue  Eskridge"  and  "Dyson's"   lives, 
But  the  boys  went  out  with  their  ' '  forty-fives' ' 
And  Winchesters,  and  they  called  them  down 
On  the  mesa  outside  of  Durango  town. 


38  JIM    MARSH AU/S   NEW   PIANNER 

We  were  sittin'  round  when  the  parson  came, 
Each  dealer  a  loafing  with  ne'er  a  game, 
When  the  parson  entered  and  made  this  crack, 
And  "Jess  Potts5'  answered  the  parson  back, 


For  none  of  us  was  supposed  to  know 
That  we  had  a  parson  in  Duraiigo. 
We  was  all  of  us  partial  to  cards  and  rum 
And  we  didn't  go  much  on  ' 'Kingdom  come. 


AND    OTHER    STORIKS.  39 

We  could  play  two  deuces,  pat  at  bluff, 

But  we  didn't  savy  "Sky  Pilot's"   guff, 

So  when  we  heard  the  parson  say 

That  he  had  a  game  which  he'd  like  to  play, 

If  he  had  the  lay-out  and  we  had  time, 

"Jess  Potts"  got  up  and  said  he  "  take  mine," 

And  we  gathered  'round  just  to  hear  the  spiel, 

When  the  parson  should  shuffle  up  and  deal. 

He  scanned  the  crowd  with  a  knowing  look, 

And  then  from  his  pocket  he  took  a  book, 

And  remarked,  "Now  boys,  if  you're  satisfied, 

I've  a  little  game  called  Christ  Crucified," 

And  he  picked  out  a  text  called  "God  is  love," 

And  he  told  us  we  had  a  father  above, 

And  if  we  would  only  believe  and  pray, 

That  he'd  be  our  friend  on  the  judgment  day. 

He  said  each  one  was  invited  in 

And  that  charity  covered  a  heap  of  sin. 

He  spoke  of  the  friends  we  had  left  behind, 

Of  our  sisters,  ®ur  mothers  and  brothers  kind, 

Our  sweethearts  and  wives  whom  we  loved  the  best, 

Whom  we  kissed  and  hugged  when  we  came  out 

West, 

And  he  said  they  remembered  our  last  good-bye, 
There  were  tears  just  then  in  old  "Sarges"  eyes, 
For  he  thought  of  his  loved  ones  far-away, 
And  just  then  the  parson  said  "let  us  pray." 

And  he  knelt  and  prayed  while  we  stood  around, 
With  heads  uncovered  and  ne'er  a  sound 
But  the  parson's  voice  in  that  gambling  hall, 
As  he  asked  forgiveness  for  one  and  all. 


40  JIM   MABSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNKR 


AND   OTHER   STORIKS.  41 

I've  seen  many  scenes  in  my  western  life 

Of  joy,  and  sorrow,  and  care,  and  strife, 

But  none  could  compare  with  the  one  that  day, 

When  old  Parson  Hogue  said  "let  us  pray." 

He  finished  and  said  the  last  amen, 

Shook  hands  all  around,  said  he'd  call  again, 

But  "Burrill  Wade"  said,  "Just  stand  pat," 

And  off  from  his  head  came  his  old  slouch  hat, 

With  a  yellow  fiver  he  made  a  bluff, 

And  he  said  to  the  gang  "dig  up  the  stuff." 

Down  went  each  hand  and  the  money  fell, 

For  all  of  us  liked  the  old  parson  well, 

We  filled  his  pockets  with  gold  galore, 

And  asked  him  to  call  again  once  more. 

Not  a  game  in  the  house  but  won  that  day, 

After  the  parson  came  in  to  pray, 

And  preached  from  the  text  called   "God  is  love." 

So  we  built  him  a  church  on  the  mesa  above, 

And  we  bought  him  a  bell  that  would  ring  and 

clang, 

And  every  Sunday  the  whole  of  the  gang 
Would  knock  off  dealing,  leave  all  in  the  lurch, 
Shut  up  the  joints  and  all  go  to  church, 
We'd  list  while  the  parson  preached  and  prayed, 
For  he  didn't  give  cant  or  rhodomontade. 
He  was  something  like  parson  "Tom  Uzzell," 
Stood  pat  on  heaven,  but  "sluffed"  on  hell: 
His  sermon  was  short  and  right  to  the  point, 
Then  we  all  went  back  and  opened  the  joint, 
And  we  dealt  and  played  and  put  up  our  rocks, 
And  we  nailed  up  a  thing  called  the  parson's  box, 


42  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

With  a  hole  011  top  just  to  slip  checks  through, 
When  anyone  won  why  he'd  put  in  a  blue, 
And  some  would  drop  in  a  red  or  a  white 
According  as  luck  had  behaved  that  night. 
When  a  man  would  cash  in  the  dealer  would  say, 
"Pards,  the  parson's  box  is  across  the  way," 
And  when  the  games  all  closed  for  the  night, 
We  would  cash  the  parson's  checks  all  right. 

Now  the  parson  lives  in  Durango  still, 

And  he  knows  "Sam,  Harry,  Tom,  Jerry  and  Bill' 

By  name,  and  if  you  would  be  in  vogue, 

You  must  always  speak  well  of  old  Parson  Hogue, 

He  draws  his  salary  just  the  same 

From  the  parson's  box  in  each  faro  game. 

At  good  short  sermons  he's  dead  in  line, 

And  with  faith  and  virtue  he'll  always  shine, 

He  knows  just  how  to  preach  and  pray, 

And  can  teach  a  poor  sinner  the  narrow  way, 

Just  one  word  more,  and  that's  what  knocks, 

There's  always  stuff  in  the  parson's  box. 


AND   OTHER    STORIES.  43 


'HE  CAN-LIKE  KELLY  CAN." 

J.  W.  Kelly  was  my  friend,  he  died  a  year  ago, 

But  when  he  was  alive,  there  were  few  things  he 
didn't  know, 

He  could  write  and  sing  an  Irish  song  as  good  as 
anyone, 

And  not  a  man  could  touch  him  on  a  story  or  a  pun. 

But  one  thing  used  to  bother  me,  when  I'd  his  pres 
tige  claim, 

Some  other  man  would  tell  me,  that  he  could  do 
just  the  same, 

Or  else  he'd  point  across  the  street  and  say,  there 
goes  a  man, 

Who  can  tell  an  Irish  story  or  a  joke  like  Kelly  can. 

He  can — like  Kelly  can — he  can — like  Kelly  can, 

And  then  I'd  look  at  him  and  say,  he  can — like 
Kelly  can. 

'Twould  make   you  laugh   when  Kelly   sang,    the 

"Songs  my  mammy  sang," 
Or  the  song  about  "TimToolan,"  when  he  was  an 

alderman, 
He'd   tell   about  a     Dutchman    and   Patrick's  day 

parade, 
And  when  he  sang  that  "German  Band,"  it  put  all 

in  the  shade. 


44 


JIM   MARSH AU/S   NKW   PIANNER 


He  never  had  a  threadbare  joke,  no  chestnuts  did  he 

throw, 
But  the  people  all  around  would  laugh,  perhaps  an 

hour  or  so. 


W 


And  after  he  had  finished,  some  idiot  of  a  man, 
Would  say,   why   I  can  tell  that  joke  the  same  as 

Kelly  can. 

He  can — like  Kelly  can,  he  can — like  Kelly  can, 
Now   don't   you    all    agree  with  me,   he  can — like 

Kelly  can. 


AND   OTHER   STORIKS. 


45 


There  was    "Throw   him  down   McClosky,"    and 

"Come  down  Mrs.  Flynn,'' 
And  that  glorious  old  come  all  ye,  called  the   "Old 

Lakes  of  Cool  Finn," 
J.  W.  Kelly  wrote  them,  and  could  sing  them  like  a 

bird, 
And  when   he   told   about   a  bum,  you'd  laugh  at 

every  word, 
What's  more  he'd  give  a  dollar   to   the  needy  and 

distressed. 
And  many  a  lone  widow,  Johnnie  Kelly's  name  has 

blessed. 
And  now  that  he  has  passed  away,    I'd   ask   if   any 

man, 
Can  boast  of  half  a   million   friends,    the   same  as 

Kelly  can. 

He  can — like  Kelly  can,    He  can — like  Kelly  can, 
I've  only  one    thing  more  to  say,    He  can — like 

Kelly  can. 


46  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PLANNER 


r 


4  j 


3 

4 


r 


-i 


f 


If  ; 

J      a      -f 

I  f  f 

^  t 


*  i  I  •  i  -1 


-r 
1 


T  T 
J    1 

-f  r 


4 


AND   OTHKR  STORIES.  47 


HIS  LETTER. 

WAS    conning    over    letters,   of  the 
olden,   golden  time, 

Some  were    cramped    and   business 
laden, 

Others  breathed  in  song  and  rhyme. 
Some  were  delicately  perfumed, 
Others  faded  with  old  age, 
And  by  chance  I  came  upon  the  one,  upon  the  other 

page. 

Just  a  business  sort  of  letter,  of  chirography  the  best, 
From  a  man  we  loved  to  honor, 
In  "the  wild  and  wooly  west." 
"Gene"  Field,  the  great  warm-hearted  one, 
And  here  I  wish  to  say 
They  never  knew  his  sterling  worth, 
Until  he'd  passed  away. 
And  I  closed  my  eyes  and  pondered 
Oe'r  his  jingles,  and  his  rhymes, 
'Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  crooning, 
Of  the  Colorado  pines. 

With  "Winken"  "Blinken"  and  with  "Nod" 
I  seemed  to  be  afloat, 
Then  I  dined  on  Red  Horse  Mountain, 
At  old  "Casey's  Table  d'Hote" 


48  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNER 

I  wandered  into  '  'Sorry  Tom's" 

To  pass  an  hour  away, 

With  "Hoover"  and  "Bill  Gillam" 

At  the  ' '  Con versazionay . ' ' 

I  saw  "Modjeskay  as  Kameel" 

Down  at  the  ''Tabor  Grand" 

When  old  "Three- Fingered  Hoover" 

"Lowed  that  he  would  take  a  hand. 

When  "Sampson"  and  "Bill  Stapleton" 

Adjourned  across  the  way, 

From  "Hoover's  gun,  and  dallied, 

With  a  green  abs  i  nthe  frappe 

"The  clinking  of  the  ice" 

One  of  the  sweetest  songs  I  heard, 

A  sequel  to  the  story, 

Of  "a  Bottle  and  a  Bird." 

The  little  old  "bench-legged  fyst," 

The  gang  all  used  to  know, 

Down  on  the  old  Missouri, 

In  the  City  of  St.  Joe, 

Where  "Colonel  Will  S.  Visscher" 

From  the  town  of  Moberly, 

Came  down  to  write  the  City  up, 

And  came  in  C.  O.  D. 

And  the  Children,  Heaven  bless  them, 

How  they  loved  him  one  and  all, 

And  how  they'd  all  come  trooping, 

At  his  friendly  beck  and  call. 

"Polly,"  "Molly,"  "Dick"  and  "Charley" 

"Johnny,"  "Cherry,"  "Bob"  and  "Sue" 

How  they  listened  to  the  story, 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

Of  that  sweet  "Little  Boy  Blue." 
As  I  wander  through  the  reflex, 
Of  the  ever-changing  years, 
I  know  the  ink  was  watered, 
With  the  poet's  loving  tears. 
God  bless  that  dear  Bohemian, 
God  bless  his  rhymes  and  runes, 
God  bless  the  nature  that  could  drop, 
From  Strawberries  to  prunes, 
And  so  I've  kept  his  letter 
And  I've  placed  it  on  the  page, 
Where  my  eyes  can  always  see  it, 
Though  they  may  grow  dim  with  age. 


49 


50  JIM   MARSHALI/S   NEW   PIANNER 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


"WALK." 

FROM     JUDGE     COLE'S    STORY. 

•P  the  dusty  road  from  Denver  town 
To  where  the  mines  their  treasures 

hide, 

The  road  is  long,  and  many  miles 
The  golden  styre  and  town  divide. 

Along  this  road,  one  summer's  day, 

There  toiled  a  tired  man, 

Begrimmed  with  dust,  the  weary  way 

He  cussed,  as  some  folks  can. 

The  stranger  hailed  a  passing  team 

That  slowly  dragged  it's  load  along; 

His  hail  roused  up  the  teamster  old 

And  checked  his  merry  song, 

"Say-y  stranger!"      "Wai,  whoap," 

"Ken  I  walk  behind  your  load 

A  spell  in  this  road?'* 

"Wai  no'  yer  can't  walk,  but  git 

Up  on  this  seat  an'  ride;  git  up  hyer." 

"Nop,  that  ain't  what  I  want, 

Fur  it's  in  yer  dust,  that's  like  a  smudge, 

I  want  to  trudge,  for  I  desarve  it." 

"Wai,  pards,  I  ain't  no  hog,  an'  I  don't 
Own  this  road  afore,  nor  'hind. 


52  JIM   MARSHAU/S    NEW   PIANN^R 

So  jest  git  right  in  the  dust 
An'  walk,  if  that's  the  way  yer  'clined. 
Gee  up,  ger  lang!"  the  driver  said. 
The  creaking  wagon  moved  amain, 
While  close  behind  the  stranger  trudged 
And  clouds  of  dust  rose  up  again. 

The  teamster  heard  the  stranger  talk 
As  if  two  trudged  behind  his  van, 
Yet,  looking  'round,  could  only  spy 
A  single  lonely  man, 
Yet  heard  the  teamster  words  like  these 
Come  from  the  dust  as  from  a  cloud, 
For  the  weary  traveler  spoke  his  mind. 
His  thoughts  he  uttered  loud. 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  talk: 

"Walk,  now,  you ,  walk! 

Not  the  way  you  went  to  Denver? 
Walk,-  -!     Jest  walk! 

"Went  up  in  the  mines  an'  made  yer  stake 
'Nuff  to  take  yer  back  to  ther  state 
Whar  yer  wur  born. 
Whar'n  hell's  yer  corn? 
Wai,  walk,  you —      — ,  walk! 

"Dust  in  yer  eyes,  dust  in  yer  nose, 
Dust  down  your  throat,  and  thick 
On  yer  clothes.     Can't  hardly  talk? 
I  know  it,  but  walk,  you  -       — ,  walk! 

"What  did  yer  do  with  all  yer  tin? 
Ya-s,  blew  every  cent  of  it  in; 


AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Got  drunk,  got  sober,  got  drunk  agin. 
Wai,  Walk,  -        — !     Jest  walk. 

"What  did  yer  do?     What  didn't  yer  do? 
Why,  when  ye  war  thar,  yer  gold  dust  flew. 
Yer  thought  it  fine  ter  keep  op'nin'  wine. 
Now  walk,  you ,  walk, 


53 


I  WALK  BEHIND  YOUR  LOAD 

"Stop  ter  drink?    What— water? 

Why  thar 

Water  with  you  warn' t  anwhere. 

'Twas  wine,  Extra  Dry.     Oh, 

You  flew  high — 

Now  walk,  you walk. 

"Chokes  yer,  this  dust?     Wai,  that 
Ain't  the  wust, 
When  yer  get  back  whar  the 
Diggins  are 


54  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 

No  pick,  no  shovel,  no  pan; 

Wai,  yer  a  healthy  man, 

Walk— jest  walk." 

The  fools  don't  all  go  to  Denver  town, 

Nor  do  they  all  from  the  mines  come  down. 

Most  all  of  us  have,  in  our  day— 

In  some  sort  of  shape,  some  kind  of  way— 

'Tainted  the  town  with  the  old  stuff," 

"Dipped  in  stocks  or  made  some  bluff, 

Mixed  wines  old  and  new, 

Got  caught  in  wedlock  by  a  shrew, 

Stayed  out  all  night,  tight, 

Rolled  home  in  the  morning  light, 

With  crumpled  tie  and  torn  clawhammer, 

'N'  woke  up  next  day  with  a  katzen jammer,1 

And  walked.     Oh ,  how  we  walked 

Now,  don't  try  to  yank  every  bun, 
Don't  try  to  have  all  the  fun, 
Don't  think  that  you  know  it  all, 
Don't  think  real  estate  won't  fall, 
Don't  try  to  bluff  on  an  ace, 
Don't  get  stuck  on  a  pretty  face, 
Don't  believe  every  jay's  talk — 
For  if  you  do  you  can  bet  you'll  walk! 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  5,5 


"GIVE  THE  DEVIL  HIS  DUE." 

HK     Devil     has   always    been    sorely 

abused, 
Of  all  of  earth's  evils  he  has  been 

accused. 
And  search  where  you  may  you  can 

find  but  a  few 
Who  are  willing  to  give  to  the  Devil  his  due. 

Most  people  have  always  supposed  it  was  right 
To  slander  the  Devil  and  treat  him  with  spite, 
To  such  the  idea  is  entirely  new 
Of  honestly  giving  the  Devil  his  due. 

Though  preachers  and  bigots  who  think  they  are 

wise, 

Insultingly  call  him  the  father  of  lies, 
Yet  they  fail  in  the  proof  that  their  statements  are 

true, 
Now  be  honest  and  give  to  the  Devil  his  due. 

Therefore  I  suggest  that  we  travel  more  slow, 
And  give  the  old  gent  a  fair  kind  of  a  show, 
Resolved  in  the  start  to  keep  justice  in  view, 
And  give  to  the  Devil  whatever  is  due. 


56  JIM   MARSH ALI/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

He  taught  our  first  parents  to  open  their  eyes, 
He  told  Mother  Kve  how  she  might  become  wise, 
And  as  every  assertion  on  record  proved  true, 
Be  honest  and  give  to  the  Devil  his  due. 

He  invented  the  telescope,  put  it  in  shape, 

And  rung  Galileo  into  a  scrape  ; 

And  his  eyes  were  put  out  by  the  bigoted  few, 

Charge  that  to  the  church — give  the  Devil  his  due. 

He  speckled  old  Job  when  he  got  on  a  spree, 
But  the  L,ord  took  a  hand  as  well  as  did  he. 
'Twas  a  scurrilous  job  put  up  by  the  two, 
And  only  one-half  to  the  Devil  is  due. 

True,  in  this  one  instance  he  did  very  wrong, 
But  the  Lord  was  in  with  it,  he  helped  it  along, 
Just  size  up  the  Devil,  his  faults  are  but  few, 
And  when  you  have  finished  just  give  him  his  due. 


AND  OTHKR   STORIES.  57 


A  BLACK  HILL'S  SERMON. 

'ROM  Deadwood?  well,  yes  sir,  I  reck 
on;   I've  been  just  a  year  on  the 
tramp, 
Not  missin'  a  railroad  excitement,  or 

skippin'  a  good  mining  camp, 
I've  sampled  the  country  all  over,  and  took  in  the 

"diggins"  all  'round, 

And  at  last  I've  fetched  up  with  the  "Webfeet" 
way  down  here  on  old  Puget  Sound. 

Yes,  Deadwood  is  dead,  sure  enough,  sir  ;  as  we 
say — "Too  dead  for  to  skin"— 

And  there's  not  an  old  timer  remainin',  except  a 
few  stiffs  that's  snowed  in. 

But  there  was  a  time  in  that  country,  when  every 
thing  wa£  in  full  bloom, 

When  licker  was  sold  for  a  quarter  a  throw,  and 
minin'  was  all  on  the  boom. 

It  was  just  about  then  that  Tom  Miller  was  grinding 

his  little  "Show  Mill," 
With  that  partner  of  his,    Billy  Nuttall,  that  the 

knowing  ones  called  "Lanky  Bill ;" 
It  was  thar,  in  their  "show  shop"  one  Sunday,  that 

I  heard  a  quaint  sermon  begun — 
The  preacher  "an  old  reformed  gambler,"   and  the 
>     text  he  gave  out,  "The  Prod  Son." 


58  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 


AND   OTHER  STORIES.  59 

The  Prodigal  Son  was  intended  to  call  all  these  sin 
ners  to  God, 

But  the  Preacher  wa'n't  partial  to  diction,  so  he  just 
cut  it  down  to  "The  Prod." 

He  remarked  that  the  "Gospel  shark"  dealin'  this 
game  is  not  present  to-day, 

And  he  asked  me  to  '  'shuffle  a  hand  up  so  all  of  you 
suckers  could  play." 

"And  right  here,"   he  continued,    "this  racket's  a 

new  game  to  me  in  this  town, 
So  just  play  it  through;    there's  no   Jimit;  you'll 

never  be  told  to  take  down. 
You  will  find  in  the  big  book  there  somewhere,  just 

where  I  don't  know  yet  myself — 
For  at  home  we  had  one  of  them  volumes,  but  we 

kept  it  laid  up  on  the  shelf— 

But  you'll  find   the   Trod  Son'  was  a  'Young  Kid' 

whose  'Ole  Man'  was  pretty  well  heeled, 
He  had  plenty  of   'stuff'  in  his  'leather,'   and  long 

horns  and  sheep  in  his  field. 
It  occurred  to  the  kid  that  he'd  tackle  the  old  man 

for  his  little  bit, 
And    then   he   would   pack    up   his   grip  sack  and 

quietly  get  up  and  git. 

He  asked  the  old  man  just  to  give  him  a  portion  of 

what  he  had  got, 
And   he   wouldn't   stay   home  there   a  waitin'  till 

Death  opened  up  a    'jack  pot'; 
And  the  old  man  did  give  him  his  divy  right  down 

to  an  old  postage  stamp, 


60  JIM    MARSH AIJ/S    NEW    PIANNER 

And  the  kid  hollered   'over  the  river' ,  and  ducked 
for  the  first  mining  camp. 

And  he  gathered  'the  gang'  all  around  him,  all  the 

boys  and  girls  he  could  see, 
And  every  one  on  em'  got  'loaded,'  and  they  had  a 

great  blow  out  and  spree, 
They  played  the  thing  up  to  the  limit,  and  took  in 

each  snoozer  and  bloke, 
Until  they  had   run  all  the  gamut,  and  the  'Prod 

Son'  of  course  he  was  broke. 

The   Good  Book  don't  say,  nor  does  history  state, 

the  game  that  he  played  in  that  place, 
But  it's  safe  to  suppose,   my  itinerant  lambs,  that 

'his  Prodship'  got  steered  agin  brace. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  it   just  bust  him,  and  sent  him 

right  down  to  the  dogs, 
And  the  very  next  thing  that  we  hear  of  the  'Prod', 

he  is  livin'  on  husks  with  the  hogs. 

It  occurred  to  him  then  that  his  racket  was  hardly 

a  one  that  could  win, 
So  he  thought  he'd  go  back  to  the  old  man,  and  try 

to  blow  him  in  agin. 
Now  perhaps  some   on  you  unbelievers  don't  think 

that  he  welcomed  his  son, 
You  may  think  he  unchained  the  bull-dog,  and  just 

double-shotted  the  gun. 

But  he  didn't;  he  just  killed  a  yearling  to  feed  this 

durned  ungrateful  scamp, 
And  he  bought  him  the  best  sheeney  suit  of  new 

clothes  to  be  found  in  the  whole  minin'  camp. 


AND   OTHKR  STORIES. 


6l 


62  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNER 

And  he  got  a  blow-out  and  shindy,  and  everything 

went  off  slam  bang. 
He  invited  the  boozers  and  snoozers,  the  hobos  and 

all  of  the  gang; 

And  the  wine  and  the  whisky  flowed  freely  and 
they  danced  'till  the  gray  break  of  day, 

And  the  'Prod  Son'  stood  solid  again  boys,  and 
further  the  Good  Book  don't  say." 

Just  then  a  big  gambler,  uprising,  remarked,  "Now, 
my  friend,  by  your  leave, 

There's  a  part  of  that  old  'Prod  Son'  racket,  that  I 

cannot  hardly  believe; 
For  there  ain't  in  this  camp  a  two-dealer,  or  man 

that  will  shake  chuck-a-luck. 
If  a  sucker  goes  broke  agin  either,  they  won't  give 

a  case  for  his  chuck, 
So  that  place  in  your  sermonizing  which  says,   'He 

went  down  to  the  dogs, 
'And  when  he  was  needing  a  squarer,  he  had  to  eat 

husks  with  the  hogs.' 
Don't  seem    to  me  just  orthodoxy,  and  unless  you 

say  you  was  there, 
I  don't  mind  telling  you    cold,  pard,    you're  yarn 

isn't  on  the  dead  square." 

The  preacher  just  straightened  himself  up,  and 
said,  "Then  you  think  that  I'm  preachin'  a  lie. ' ' 

And  a  forty-five  cracked  in  a  minute,  and  the  big 
gambler  s  turn  came  to  die. 

There  were  many  old  "blood  purifiers"  and  "ex- 
pectorators  of  lead  around." 


AND   OTHER  STORIES.  63 

And  when  quiet  was  shortly  restored  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  were  dead. 

Then  the  preacher  resumed,   "Thar' 11  be  preachin' 

next  Sunday,  at  just  10  o'clock, 
We're  goin'    to  run  scripture  teachin',   right  thro' 

here  from  soda  to  hoc, 
My  text  is  the  first  Lord's  commandment,  and  this 

is  the  rule  I've  laid  down, 
To  run  this  game  easy  and  quiet,  if    I   kill  every 

sucker  in  town." 


64  JIM    MARSHAU/ S    NEW   PIANNER 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  65 


'CEPTIN'  IKE. 

TO  LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR  LAUGHTON. 

i 

HAR  wuz  Si,  thar  wuz  Hi,  thar  wuz 

Alicand  Dan; 

Martha,  Symanthy,  Matilda  an'  Fan, 
Eliza,   Mirandy,   an'  Flora  an'  Belle, 
An'  they  all  got  along  most  uncom 
monly  well, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

Somehow  or  'nother  Ike  never  could  work, 
Didn't  cotton  to  nothin'  exceptin'  to  shirk. 
All  of  Sprague's  boys  an'  his  gals  had  some  spunk, 
An'  he  bragged  that  none  on   'em  nobody   could 
skunk, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

Thar  wuz  Si,   could  split  rails,  an'   Dan  he  could 

mow. 

Thar  wuz  Alic  could  harvest,  an'  Hi  he  could  hoe; 
Martha,  Matildy  an'  Fan  could  spin  yarn 
A.n'  every  one  on  'em  could  work  on  the  farm, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

So  old  Sprague  allowed  how  as  Ike  wuz  no  good, 
He  wouldn't  fetch  water,  he  couldn't  split  wood; 


66  JIM   MARSHAU/S    NEW   PIANNER 

He'd  hide  in  the  barn  an'  be  readin'  a  book — 
You  could  find  all  the  others  whenever  you'd  look, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

Mother  Sprague  she  would  scold,  an'   old  Sprague, 

he  would  cuss, 

An'  swear  Ike  must  work,  or  must  go  an'  do  wuss, 
Fur  he  warn't  goin  to  harbor  a  book  readin'  drone, 
An'  they  all  had  to  work  to  help  keep  up  the  home, 

'  Ceptin  •  Ike. 

So  Ike  packed  his  budget  an'  bid  'em  good  bye! 
An'  he  started  for  town  with  a  tear  in  his  eye — 
Old  Sprague  allowed  of  the  city  he'd  tire, 
As  all  of  the  gals  and  boys  sot  'round  the  fire, 

Ceptin'   Ike. 

Wai  'twas  more'n  five  years  after  Ike  had  lit  out, 

No  one  ever  hearn  of  what  he  wuz  about. 

Some  'lowed  he  wuz  dead,    some  believed  him    in 

jail; 
An'  no  one  once  doubted  in  all  things  he'd  fail, 

'Ceptin'    Ike. 

The  gals  they  all  married;  the  boys  settled  down. 
Some  on  'em  kept  farmin',  an'  some  moved  to  town. 
Old  Sprague  an'  his  wife  they  wuz  left  all  alone; 
Each  one  of  their  children  had  moved  to  their  home, 

'Ceptin   Ike. 

One  day  Sprague  wuz  readin'  about  a  big  ball 
To  welcome  a  Senator  at  the  town  hall. 


AND   OTHER  STORIES. 


67 


68  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

His  name  it  wuz  Sprague — S — P — R — A — G — u — E; 
An'  he  thought  of  all  men  of  that  name  that  could 
be; 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

But  he  made  up  his  mind,  if  it  cost  him  a  leg, 
That  he'd  see  that  great  man  that  the  papers  called 

Sprague. 

So  he  harnessed  old  Bess,  into  town  he  wuz  whirled, 
A-thinkin'  of  all  of  the  Spragues  in  the  world; 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

An'  when  he  walked  into  the  door  of  the  hall, 
An'  saw  all  the  big  bugs  dressed  up  for  the  ball, 
He  crowded  along  this  great  statesman  to  see, 
Ole  Sprague  liked  to  fainted,  fur  who  should  it  be 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

'"Myboy!  my  poor  Ike,"  ole  Sprague  hollered  out 

loud. 

The  Senator,  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
An  he  hugged  the  ole  man  just  the  minit  he  spoke, 
An'  all  the  fine  folks  thought  the  thing  was  a  joke, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 

That  night  Ike  he  told  his  ole  mother  an'  dad 

Of  all  of  the  ups  an'  the  downs  that  he'd  had. 

How  he'd  worked  an'  bought  books,  how  he'd  study 

an'  read, 
An'  no  one  once  thought  he  would  ever  succeed, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


69 


Ike's  got  just  as  fur  as  he  ever  can  climb. 
He  sits  up  in  the  senate,  an'  draws  his  per  diem. 
All  the  rest  of  Sprague 's  boys  an'  his  gals  jog  along, 
But  none  of  'em's  mentioned  in  story  or  song, 

'Ceptin'  Ike. 


yo  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NKW  PIANNER 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  71 


HORSE  PHILOSOPHY, 

E  ancient   Car    horse   stood    at    the 

curb,  adown  Fourth  Avenue. 
Awaiting  his  turn  to  take  up  again, 

the  burden  of  Life  anew, 
And   he    pondered    and    mused    on 

the  problem,    of    life   from  whichever  side  it 

was  viewed, 
And  he  marveled  much  at  His  Master,  man,  and  his 

base  ingratitude, 
They   tell   us  that  man  is  a  master  mind  and  the 

acme  of  all  that's  grand, 
The  noblest  work  of  a  noble  world,  that  the  great 

Creator  planned. 
If  this  is  true  as  I'd  fain  believe,  then  why  am  I 

here  to-day, 
To  work  and  sweat  and  to  worry  and  fret,  my  poor 

old  life  away. 
When  I  was  young  I  was  called  high  strung,  and 

could  go  at  a  lively  pace, 
I  carried  a  Jock  to  the  winning  post  in  many  a 

hard  fought  race, 
I    was  petted,    caressed,    extolled  and  blessed  by 

men  both  young  and  old, 
For  I  was  the  fastest  in  the  field,  and  have  won  my 

weight  in  gold. 


72  JIM   MARSHAIJ/S    NEW 

I  remember  the  day  at  Louisville,  when  I  won  the 

Handicap, 
There  wasn't  a  horse  in  all  the  field  but  me,  upon 

the  map, 
And  the  Brooklyn  cup  with  a  fortune  up  I  ran  it 

in  splendid  style. 

And  I  took  first  place  in  the  Gloucester  race, 
And  carried  away  the  pile, 
At  the  mystic  down  in  Boston,  the  Twin  City  Park 

out  west, 
At  the  Hawthorne  track  in  Chicago  I  have  proved 

myself  the  best. 

I  was  called  the  King  and  the  Emperor,  was  show 
ered  with  flowers  and  fame, 
But  this  was  before  I  was  broken  down,  and  a  loser 

in  life's  game. 
There  came  a  day,  a  fatal  day,  the  track  was  heavy 

and  I, 

Well  I  was  not  in  any  form  so  ill  that  I  feared  I'd  die, 
But   the  money  was  up  and  I  had  to  start  though 

I  carried  the  world  on  my  back, 
And  I'll  never  forget   how  I  labored    and   sweat, 

around  that  old  mile  track. 
I  lost  of  course  and  from  that  day  on  I  have  never 

known  renown, 
I  dropped  from    a  King  to  a  nameless  thing,  worn 

out  and  broken  down. 
Next  day  I  was  sold  to  a  milk  man  old,  who  thought 

me  strong  and  stout 
And  I  learned  the  door  of  each  house  and  store,  as 

I  drew  the  cans  about. 


AND   OTHER   STORIES.  73 

Next  a  garbage  cart  in  the  City  Mart,  I   drew  from 

door  to  door, 
And  next  I  came  to  the  street  car  man  to  toil  for 

evermore, 
I  sometimes  wonder  and  ponder  as  I  see  upon  the 

street, 
The  faces   of  some  old  sports  that  it  has  been  my 

luck  to  meet. 
If  ever  they  recognize  in  me  here  broken  down  and 

old, 
The  Gilding  Young  who  was  fit  to  run  for  twice  his 

weight  in  gold. 
And  I  notice  that  some  look  downcast  and  some  of 

them  gay  and  bright 
And  some  are  moody  and  silent  as  if  things  warn't 

just  right. 
And  mayhap  they  have  their  troubles  too,  as  well 

as  a  horse  like  me, 
Though  this  is  a  thought  that  has  never   occurred 

in  my  horse  philosophy. 
But  my  life  has  taught  me  one    grand   truth  that's 

not  to  balk  or  shirk, 
For  what  you  have  been  doesn't  count  as  long  as 

you  cannot  work. 
And  the  yesterday  is  forgotten  in  the  race  of  the 

bright  to-day, 
And   you  cannot  depend   upon  what   you've  been> 

you  must  always  play  or  pay, 
But  when  I  repine  for  the  olden   time  and  bemoan 

my  fate  as  hard, 
I  am  better  to  be  drawing  car  than  a  case  for  the 

old  boneyard, 


74 


JIM    MARSH  Ally's   NEW   PIANNKR 


I  have  this,  its  true  to  look  forward  to 

That  thoughts  of  gloom  dispel, 

That  when  I'm  called  on  to  cash  in  I've  did  my  duty 

well, 
And  this  advice  I  give  to  man  and  its  all  that  I  have 

to  give, 
Be  honest  and  true  in  whatever  you  do  as  long  as 

you  may  live, 
Your  place  is  kept  and  it  will  wait,  believe  me  this 

is  true, 
And  try  to  do  to  others  as  you'd  have  them  do  to 

you. 
Remember  that  no  star  is  lost  that  you  might  once 

have  seen, 
Remember  that  you  always  may  be  what  you  might 

have  been, 
No  matter  what  your  task  in  life  be  sure  you  never 

shirk, 
Hallo,  here  comes  my  driver  and  I  must  be  off  to 

work. 


AND  OTHER   STORIES. 


75 


THAT  QUEEN. 

[HE  Judge  was  a  Christian,  and  played 

on  the  square, 

But  he  figured  the  cards  pretty  close ! 
He  could  call  off  your  hand  every  time 

to  a  pair, 
And  lay  down  a  "  full"  when  he  chose. 

The  Colonel  could  play  a  more  difficult  game, — 

I  don't  mean  to  say  he  would  cheat, 
But  he  held  the  top  card  when  the  big  betting  came, 

And  some  hands  that  couldn't  be  beat. 

Coming   home  from   Chicago  the  two   chanced  to 
meet — 

They  were  very  old  friends — on  the  cars; 
And  as  neither  the  other  at  poker  could  beat, 

They  played  euchre,  five  points,  for  cigars. 

The  cards  ran  along  pretty  evenly,  too, 
Till  the  Judge  turned  a  moment  his  head, 

When  the   Colonel,  in  shuffling,  slipped  the  deck 

through 
And  the  Judge  cut  a  cold  one  instead. 


76  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 

Twas  euchre,  of  course;  but  the  Judge  was  amazed, 

When  he  lifted  four  kings  in  a  lump; 
But  the  Colonel,  not  seeming  a  particle  dazed, 

Turned  up  a  red  queen  for  a  trump. 
''You  say — do  you  pass,  Judge  ?"  the  Colonel  called 
out; 

"  I/ook  here,"  said  the  limb  of  the  law, 
11  I've  mighty  queer  cards;  if  you're  in  for  a  bout, 

We'll  play  this  one  hand  out  at  draw." 

The  Colonel  considered  and  wriggled  his  neck — 

"I,  too,  have  a  very  odd  hand; 

If  you'll  give  me  that  queen   from  the  top  of  the 
deck, 

We'll  play  out  the  cards  as  they  stand." 

"  Agreed,"  said  the  Judge,  for  he  saw  at   a  glance 
The  Colonel  had  one  of  two  things — 

A  full,  or  four  queens,  and  he  hadn't  a  chance 
To  rake  the  pot  down  from  four  kings. 

The  Judge  chipped    with  fifty,   the   Colonel   came 
back; 

The  Judge  answered  him  with  a  raise; 
Of  the  bets  the  two  made  I  could  never  get  track, 

But  they  piled  up,  like  gals  in  a  chaise. 

At  last  says   the   Judge,    "  Here,   I'm  hunting  no 

more — 

Four  kings;  reach  us  over  that  pot." 
"  Hold  on,"  says  the  Colonel,  "  I,  too,  have  found 

four, 
And  they're  four  little  aces  I've  got." 


AND   OTHKR   STORIKS. 


77 


The  Judge  took  the  cards  and  looked  over  them 
well, 

Fetched  a  breath  from  his  trousers'  waistband — 
"  Well,  what  I'd  like  to  know  just  now  is,  what  in 

,   h— 11 

The  queen  had  to  do  with  that  hand." 


78  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 


AND  OTHKR  STORIES  79 


NO  OPENING.-WRITE  AGAIN, 

A  THEATRIC AI,   AGKNT'S  STORY. 


[NoTK. — This  story  is  told  by  an   agent  to  an 
actor  when  he  calls  for  his  letters  at  the  office.] 


you   read   my    "  Not   in   the    Pro 
gramme,  "  eh  ? 

You  liked  it?     Oh,  of  course. 
Profesh  could  understand  its  points, 

And  I  fancy  some  are  worse. 
'Twas  a  true  story,  badly  told,  my  boy, 

More  like  a  novel  old, 
But  it  winds  up  good,  and  that's  the 
Bright  side  of  the  story  told. 

Here's  two  letters  and  a  card 

That  came  for  you  to-day. 
I  hope  they  bring  good  news,  my  boy, 

With  an  opening,  right  away. 
So  while  you  break  the  seals  and  read, 

I'll  write  this  "  ad"  up  here. 
I  wish  that  "  biz  "  would  pull  up  a  bit, 

For  things  look  devilish  queer. 


8o  JIM    MARSHAIvI/S    NEW    PIANNER 

There  was  poor  Jim  Rhodes,  the  heavy  man, 

He  was  in  here  twice  last  night; 
But  that  piece  ain't  on  at  the  Standard — 

If  it  was,  he'd  be  all  right. 
And  there's  L,a  Dieux,  she's  been  here  too; 

It's  tough  with  her,  poor  soul; 
An  invalid  mother  at  home  to  nurse, 

And  no  wealth  to  get  food  or  coal. 

Theatrical  agencies  are  no  good; 

Why!  two  or  three  years  ago, 
When  I  went  in  the  biz,  graft  was  immense, 

But  it's  different  now,  you  know. 
I've  got  more  people  booked,  my  boy, 

Than  could  play  a  week  in  a  year, 
And  fill  each  minstrel  hall  and 

Bach  variety  theatre  here. 

What!  kicking  again?     Well,  what's  up  now? 

Bad  news — I  see  it  plain. 
From  Shelby,  eh,  and  Stetson,  too. 

"  No  opening — write  again." 
The  same  old  story,  you  say.     Oh,  pshaw  ! 

See  here,  what  would  you  do 
If  you  had  a  wife  and  kids  to  feed 

And  no  snap  for  a  month  or  two  ? 

Why,  bless  you,  I  knew  a  poor  fellow  once, 

It  was  only  a  year  or  two — 
Just  give  me  a  light  while  I  fill  the  old  pipe, 

And  I'll  tell  the  story  for  you. 


AND   OTHER   STORIES  8 1 

There's  nothing  doing  at  all  to-day, 

So  we'll  just  chat  awhile, 
And  then  we'll  take  a  skip  down  town 

And  indulge  in  a  friendly  smile. 

It  was  only  a  year  or  two  ago, 

As  I  have  said  before, 
When  '  *  Tony  ' '  was  on  the  Bowery, 

And  Karl  Klein,  he  kept  next  door; 
While  Poole  was  down  at  the  Comique, 

And  things  with  us  were  fair, 
1  was  sitting,  one  morning  early, 

Right  here  in  this  very  chair, 

When  a  fellow  I  knew — an  actor,  too, 

Not  one  who  deals  in  cheek, 
Or  one  of  those  Talma' d  Romeos 

For  six  and  a  half  per  week, 
But  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman — 

Came  in  at  that  very  door, 
With  a  woe-begone  and  weary  look 

I  never  saw  before. 
"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  George?"  I  said, 

For  I  noticed,  right  away, 
That  something  had  gone  wrong  with  him; 

"  You're  looking  glum. to-day; 
Wife  and  the  kids  all  well,  I  hope." 

He  smiled  a  ghastly  smile, 
But  I  noticed  a  sharp  twitching 

Of  the  under  lip  th£  while. 

"  Come  in,  old  man,  come  in,"  I  said; 
"  I've  half  an  hour  to  spare, 


32  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

I  want  to  chat  about  the  times — 

Be  seated — have  a  chair. 
The  postman  will  be  in  here  soon; 

His  calls  of  late,  it  seems, 
Are  like  Pat  Rooney's  serial  tales, 

Quite  '  few  and  far  between.' 

"  What's  that  ?     'Twas  Campbell  wrote  that  line, 

But  then,  of  course,  you  know 
That  plagiarists  are  cheeky  chaps— 

At  least  I  find  them  so; 
Originals  are  not  so  thick 

Just  at  this  very  time, 
As  Beautiful  Snow's  authors,  or 

The  poets  who  wrote  *  Crime. '  ' ' 
He  studied  and  then  asked  me 

If  "  I'd  anything  to  do 
For  him."     He  hadn't  worked  a  tap 

For  near  a  month  or  two. 
And  when  he  spoke  of  the  folks  at  home, 

I  pledge  my  word  to  you 
It  kind  of  made  me  weaken. 

But  what  was  I  to  do  ? 

I  told  him  to  drop  in  again 

In  perhaps  a  day  or  so, 
And  something  might  turn  up — of  course 

To  brace  him  up,  you  know. 
But  I  noticed  something  curious 

In  the  look  of  his  bright  eye, 
And  when  I  said  good-afternoon, 

He  answered  me.  "  Good-by." 


AND   OTHKR   STORIES  83 

When  he'd  gone  out  I  turned  my  thoughts 

To  business  right  away, 
I  had  some  correspondence 

With  customers  that  day. 
But  somehow — it's  d — d  funny, 

I  scarce  can  tell  you  why — 
Instead  of  ending  with  "  Truly  Yours," 

I'd  Wind  up  with  "  Good-by." 

Did  you  ever  have  a  feeling 

That  things  wasn't  just  in  place 
A  kind  of  idea  that  your 

"  Nut  had  got  off  its  '  kerbase'  ?" 
Well,  so  it  was  with  me  that  day, 

No  matter  how  I'd  try 
To  keep  from  thinking  how  George  looked 

When  he  said  to  me  ' '  Good-by. ' ' 

It  was  no  use — I  ' '  piked  ' '    around, 

I  couldn't  do  a  thing; 
I  couldn't  read,  I  couldn't  write, 

I  couldn't  talk  or  sing, 
So  I  put  on  my  hat  and  coat,  and 

Said  I  to  myself, 
'  I'll  go  'cross  town  and  hunt  George  out 

And  I'll  spare  him  a  little  wealth." 

Now  Brother  De  Witt  Talmage  said  that 

Actors  never  could 
Sneak  in  at  the  gate  of  heaven 

Or  do  a  bit  of  good. 


84  JIM   MARSH AU/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

But  De  Witt,  he  ain't  acquainted  yet, 
For  I  know  some  of  the  boys, 

Who  do  a  good  thing  once  in  a  while 
And  don't  make  any  noise. 

But  that's  nothing  to  my  story  and 

De  Witt  is  not  my  style; 
You  let  him  alone  and  he'll  come  home, 

I  reckon,  after  a  while. 
If  he  don't — why,  I  sha'nt  worry,  for  he 

Would  not  go  in 
To  ' '  the  little  church  round  the  corner, ' ' 

If  you  or  I  "  cashed  in." 

Well,  to  proceed:  I  went  'cross  town,  to 

A  place  perhaps  you  know, 
A  tenement  house  in  Chrystie  Street, 

In  a  place  called  "  Lover's  Row," 
I  climbed  up  three  long  nights  of  stairs, 

And  at  last  I  reached  the  door, 
And  I  knocked,  with  a  dread  feeling 

I  never  felt  before. 

I  knocked  again,  no  answer  came, 

I  listened — all  was  still, 
And  over  my  whole  being  there  crept 

A  deathly  chill, 
I  called  aloud — the  neighbors  came — 

We  bursted  in  the  door; 
We  entered,  and  the  man  I  sought 

Was  kneeling  on  the  floor. 


AND   OTHER   STORIKS.  85 

His  wife  and  little  children  were 

Stretched  upon  the  bed, 
And  close  beside  their  wasted  forms 

This  actor  kneeling — dead, 
Dead  of  a  broken  heart,  because 

That  wife  and  little  babes 
Had  starved  in  this  great  city, 

With  no  friendly  hand  to  aid. 

"  Dead  of  a  broken  heart  " — good  God 

Can  such  things  ever  be, 
In  this  great  heaving,  throbbing  world, 

And  no  one  there  to  see  ? 
They  say,  old  man,  that  there  is  One, 

Who  l '  notes  the  .sparrow's  fall," 
Whose  loving  eye  is  ever  on  the 

Sinner,  saint  and  all. 

There  was  a  postal  card  beside  him, 
I  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

It  told  the  old,  old  story- 
It  had  overrun  the  cup; 

For  on  one  side  I  read  the  actor's 
Residence  and  name, 

And  on  the  other  were  these  words, 
' '  No  opening — write  again.  ' 

A  little  ray  of  sunshine  stole 

Athwart  the  attic  floor, 
Lighting  the  tear-stained  faces  of 

The  neighbors  round  the  door. 

* 


86  JIM    MARSHAU/S    NEW    PIANNKR 

Gilding  the  silken  tresses  of  the 

Little  folks  he  loved, 
Alike  unto  a  messenger  from 

That  bright  home  above. 

They'd  gone  away  from  us,  old  man, 

Up  to  that  good  old  home, 
Up  to  the  One  who  bade  us 

"  Suffer  little  ones  to  come;" 
To  that  bright  land  where  there's  no  more 

Of  sorrow,  care  and  pain, 
To  a  manager  who  never  said, 

"  No  opening — write  again.*' 


AND  OTHBR  STORIES. 


To  "JACK"  CORWIN, 


CHICAGO  TRIBUNE." 


Come  and  sit  beside  me  Johnny, 
I  have  something  I  would  say, 
That,  perhaps,  may  interest  you. 
Throw  that  cigarette  away ! 
I  will  tell  a  little  story 
Of  a  man,  well  known  to  fame, 
Who  eschewing  all  vain  glory, 
Almost  canonized  his  name. 


JIM    MARSHAL'S    NEW    PIANNKR 

Martin  L,uther,  saith  the  legend, 
Seated  in  his  study  grim, 
Conning  some  old  Biblic  story 
When  Old  Nick  appeared  to  him, 
Neither  gun  or  pistol  had  he 
To  oppose  the  one  he  feared, 
So  he  threw  the  inkstand  at  him, 
And  the  Devil  disappeared. 

Now,  my  boy,  just  take  this  lesson 
To  your  heart,  and  hold  it  fast. 
Fight  the  Devil  with  the  inkstand, 
Take  my  word,  he  cannot  last. 
Every  ill  and  every  evil. 
Every  falsehood,  every  lie, 
Can  be  vanquished  like  the  Devil, 
With  the  inkstand,  if  you'll  try. 

Never  mind  the  dynamiters, 
L,et  the  Czar  of  Russia  die, 
Tyranny  still  makes  the  exile 
In  Siberian  dungeon  lie. 
Anarchists  are  idiotic, 
Teach  them  what  they  are  about  ; 
Throw  the  inkstand  at  'em  Johnny, 
It  will  surely  knock  'em  out. 

Let  historians  boast  of  Nero, 
And  on  Caesar's  fame  descant, 
Edison's  a  greater  hero 
Than  a  Sherman,  or  a  Grant. 


AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

They,  but  freed  the  slave  for  glory, 
His  will  be  a  grander  goal, 
Children  learn  by  song  and  story 
How  to  free  the  mind  and  soul. 

Printer's  ink  and  education, 
Tinged  with  irony  and  song, 
Sap  away  the  strong  foundation 
Of  each  monumental  wrong. 
Make  intelligence  your  motto, 
Never  mind  the  shot  or  shell, 
Throw  the  inkstand  at  'em  Johnny, 
Cut  'er  loose,  and  give  'em  h — 1. 


89 


90  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


'TWO  LITTLE  BUSTED  SHOES." 

A    TOUCH   OP   NATURE. 


HE  Orleans  Club  at  Jimtown,*  Colo 
rado,  '92, 
Was  a  joint  where  you  could  play  all 

games  from  a  split  up  to  a  blue. 
And  the  gang  that  hung  around  the 
club  I'll  say,  'twixt  you  and  me, 
Would  hardly  cut  a  figure  at  a  Methodist  Pink  Tea- 
There  was  (<  Big  Ed  Burns,"    and  "Crazy  Horse,'' 

"Jim  Sanford,"   "Windy  Dick," 
"Tom  Kady,"    the   shell  juggler,    "Joe   Palmer/' 

pretty  slick, 
"Joe  Sir^mons,  who  could  deal  the  bank    and  never 

lose  a  check, 

" Pete  Burns,''  "Jim  Bolen,"  and  "Jeff  Smith,"   all 
high  cards  in  the  deck. 

It  was  in  the  gray  of  morning,  and  the  heterogeni- 

ous  gang 
Sat  worrying  the  barkeeper  with  nonsense,  guff  and 

slang; 

All  "kidding,"  "chaffing,"  "guying,"  in  a  smooth, 

good  natured  way, 
About  the  incidental  bosh  that  happened  yesterday. 


*The  lower  end  of  Creede  Camp  was  called  Jimtown. 


92  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

Sometimes  ,  in  easy  tilted  chair    one  of  them'd  try 

to  snooze, 
And  then  someone  would  ''loosen  up  and  order  up 

the  booze, ' ' 
Some  break -of-day  boy  would  come  in  and  give  the 

bar  boy   "guff," 
And  learn  without  politeness  that  he'd    "have  to 

have  the  stuff. ' ' 

Then  one  of  them  would  tell  the  tramp  to  "go  and 

soak  his  head," 
And  say  if  he  "drank  water  he'd  be  found  some 

morning  dead. ' ' 
They'd  ask  him  why  he  didn't   send  to  papa  for  a 

check 
So  he  could  purchase  barb  wire  booze  to  lubricate 

his  neck, 

And  after  they  had  kidded  him  until  he  couldn't  talk, 
They'd  fill  him  up  with  Red  Bye  and  tell  him  to 

take  a  "walk." 
Not  by  any  means  bad  fellows,   but  they  loved  a 

little  lark, 
And  they'd  give  up  to  the  needy  quicker  than  a 

gospel  shark. 

I  happened  in  one  morning  to  investigate  my  trunk; 
I'd  left  it  in  the  barroom,  for  I  slept  up  in  a  bunk, 
For  sleeping  berths  were  limited,  and  I  could  name 

a  few 
Who  have  stood  up  in  the  corner  in  Jimtown  in  '92. 

Pete  Burns  remarked:    "Get  on  to  him;  since  he 
stopped  getting  drunk, 


AND   OTHER   STORIES  93 

He's  saved  up  all  his  money  for  a  Saratoga  trunk?" 
And  they  gathered  'round  me  each  of  them,  with 

laughter,  josh  and  kid, 
To  investigate  my  wardrobe  when  I  opened  up  the 

lid. 

It  happened  now  that  "Jersey"  (ye  see  "Jersey"  is 

my  wife, 

And  no  man  ever  had  a  better  partner  in  his  life), 
But   "Jersey"   when  she  packed  the   trunk  before 

she  closed  the  lid 
Had  just  thrown  in  a  souvenir  to  'mind  me  of  the  kid. 

And  as  each  fellow  cranes  his  neck  the  first  thing 
that  he  views 

Is  two  tiny  little  stockings  and  two  little  busted 
shoes. 

Right  here  on  top  they  rested  and  in  fancy  seemed 
to  say 

"Now,  papa,  don't  forget  us  when  you're  wander 
ing  far  away. 

Not  a   single  word  was    uttered  by  the  gang  that 

stood  around, 
And  I  knew  that  I  the  secret  to  each  great  rough 

heart  had  found, 
And  I  knew  that   each  was  thinking  in  the  early 

morning  gray 
Of  their  wives  and  little  darlings  who  were  praying 

far  away. 

Praying  for  those  great  rough  fellows  who  would 
give  their  very  life 


94  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

That  those  wives  and  little  children  might  be  spared 

all  pain  and  strife, 

Might  never  know  adversity  or  what  it  was  to  lose 
The  father,  who  would  purchase  them  those  little 

busted  shoes. 

I  knew  their  thoughts   in  retrospect,  flew  o'er  the 

western  plain, 
To  their  patient  wives  and   little  ones  they  might 

not  see  again, 
And  I  knew  the  violet  splendor  of  the  hills  whereon 

they  roam, 
Was  mingling  with  the  unshed  tears  for  little  ones 

at  home. 

Not  a  single  jest  was  ventured,  not  a  word  was 

spoken  loud, 
As  a  flood  of  golden  sunshine  poured  it's  glory  o'er 

the  crowd. 
Could  an  old  and  master  painter  touched  his  palette's 

varied  hues, 
He'd  have  gathered   inspiration   from   those   little 

busted  shoes. 

I  said  they  were  not  bad  men,    and  I   mean  just 

what  I  say, 
And  I  hope  that  I  may  meet  them  all  upon  some 

future  day, 
May  meet  them  where  no  memories  may  conj  ure  up 

the  blues, 
With    their  little  ones  around  them  wearing  little 

busted  shoes. 


AND   OTHKR   STORIKS  95 

I  closed  the  lid  and  locked  it,  hardly  knowing  what 

I  did, 
But  each  seemed  to   breathe  the  freer  when  those 

little  shoes  were  hid: 
Some  one  said  "let's  irrigate,"  each  to  the  bar  drew 

near, 
And  seemingly  each  hand  went  up  to  dash  away  a 

tear. 

The   glasses   clinked,     adown    the    bar  the   bottle 

passed  along, 
And  "Big  Ed  Burns"  proposed  that  we  should  have 

a  toast  or  song, 
But  after  each  had  filled  his  glass  with   "Old  Mc- 

brayer  Booze," 
We  drank  to  wives  and   children  and  those  little 

busted  shoes. 

CAMP,  COLORADO,  March  8,  1892. 


96  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNER 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  9/ 


TEN  MILE  OR  BUST. 


A  LONG  WAY  AFTER   LONGFELLOW. 


shades  of  eve  were  falling  fast, 
As    up  through   L,eadville   village 

passed, 
A  "Mick"   who  bore  through  mud 

and  vice, 

A  hickory  shirt,  with  this  device, 
"Ten  mile  or  bust." 

His  hat  was  slouched,  he'd  one  cock  eye, 
That  "piped  off"  every  passer-by, 
The  bootblack  shouted  "have  a  shine?" 
The  "Mick"  replied,  "I'll  hunt  a  mine," 
"Ten  mile  or  bust." 

Beware  the  pine  tree's  withered  branch, 
Beware  a  "deadfall ",  called  Chalk  Ranch, 
Was  "Hoodoo  Brown's,"  last  good  night, 
The  "Mick"  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
"Ten  mile  or  bust.' 


98  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

The  dance  house  girl  said,  "stay  and  try 
A  little  glass  of  Dance  House  P>.ye, 
I'll  be  your  Darling  Dear  Gazelle." 
The  "Mick"  replied,  '  Oh  go  to  —well," 
"Ten  mile  or  bust." 

Next  morning  as  the  "Ten  mile  stage," 
Was  going  up  the  "Narrow  Guage" 
A  hickory  shirt  hung  on  a  rail, 
With  these  words  painted  on  the  tail, 
"Ten  mile  or  bust." 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


99 


Buy  Roger!     Why,  stranger,  yer  crazy, 

Yer   a  little  bit  off  yer  kerbase  ; 
That  dog  is  a  regular  daisy, 

He's  got  the  first  place  in  the  race. 
He's  travelled  the  kentry  all  over, 

From  Dodge  City  down  to  the  sea, 
An'   their    ain't   enough   dust   in   yer   trousers 

To  purchase  old  Roger  from  me. 

Do  ye  know  what  he  done?     Well,  I'll  tell  yer, 
What,  drink!     I  don't  care  if  I  do. 

Straight  pizen  (here's  how),  but  to  sell  yer 
My  dog,  that's  too  cursed  bran  new. 


IOO  JIM    MARSHAL!/ S    NEW    PIANNKR 

When  Big  Ed  Silk,  that  was  my  pardner. 
Was  runnin'  a  place  in  the  mines, 

An'  grubbin'  like  blazes  to  keep  up 
His  end,  in  some  cursed  hard  times  ; 

We'd  bin  up  all  night  in  the  dance  hall, 

An'  closed  up  the  shanty  all  hunk, 
We'd  took  our  last  "ball"  in  the  morniii' 

An*  each  tumbled  into  his  bunk  ; 
We'd  forgot  all  our  joy  and  our  sorrow, 

Bach  was  snoozin'  as  sweet  as  a  lamb, 
Not  a  thinkin'  of  trouble  to-morrow, 

An'  none  on  us  carin'  a  d — n;  • 

When  a  racket  wuz  raised  in  the  castle, 

As  if  all  the  devils  in  hell 
Had  thundered  around  the  old  Bastile, 

And  dropped  in  upon  us,  pell  mell; 
But  I  was  so  sleepy  fromboozin',— 

For  the  licker'd  got  into  my  head, 
That  I  couldn  t  be  woke  from  my  snoozin' 

Till  Roger  sprung  onto  the  bed. 

With  a  yell  like  the  scream  of  a  human 

He  tore  off  the  clothes  with  a  roar, 
An'  nailin'  me  right  by  the  collar 

He  tumbled  me  on  the  floor. 
I  grabbed  for  my  shooter — confound  me, 

I  staggered.     Ole  man,  I'm  no  liar, 
The  roof  an'  the  walls  all  around  me 

War  blaziu'  with  seethin'  red  lire. 


AND    OTHER    1TORIES.  l 

With  a  howl  (like  a  wounded  hyena) 

He  sprang  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
An'  I  followed  blindly  behind  him, 

Bach  minnit'  expectin'  to  fall. 
Right  thro'  where  the  smoke  was  the  thickest, 

Barkin'  loudly  the  whole  of  the  way, 
Went  Roger;  I'll  never  forget  it, 

If  I  live  till  the  great  judgment  day. 

We'd  just  cleared  the  front,  I  an'  Roger, 

When  in  fell  the  roof  with  a  crash, 
That  sounded  as  if  "Hell's  half  acre'' 

Had  tumbled  upon  us  kermash; 
An'  Roger  was  prancin'  around  me, 
With  a  look  just  ez  much  as  to  say, 
' '  Ole  man,  if  I  hadn't  hev  found  ye, 
The  turn  would  come  Jack  Box,  to-day.*' 

Since  then  we've  been  pardners  together, 
Some  days  we  get  wheat,  and  some  chaff, 

But  whether  its  chicken  or  feathers, 
Old  Roger's  entitled  to  half. 

Ask  Batt  Masterson  or  Jean  Johnson 
.  If  "  Roge  "  knows  the  lay  of  the  land. 

He  can  find  ev'ry  Appache  Tepee, 
From  Tombstone  to  the  Rio  Grande. 

An'  if  ' '  tenderfoot ' '  should  abuse  Roger 
When  one  of  ' '  the  gang  "  is  in  sight, 

Take  my  word  for  it,  stranger,  that  codger 
Had  better  get  ready  to  fight. 

Not  a  place  from  the  worst  to  the  finest, 


102 x  JIM    MARSHAU/S    NEW    PIANNKR 

A  hotel,  a  shanty,  or  ranche, 
From  the  San  Juan  down  to  Ouyrnas, 
But  Roger  hez  got  a  carte  blanche. 

I've  seen  many  friends  in  my  travels, 

Some  friends  whom  the  world  would  call  game, 
But  the  friendship  of  my  old  dog  Roger 

Would  put  all  the  others  to  shame. 
They  weaken  when  sorrow  and  trouble 

Comes  on  you — they  are  not  true  blue, 
But,  stranger,  right  thar  is  a  pardner 

Who'll  stick  through  it  all  staunch  an'  true. 

So  put  up  yer  "  leather  "  thar,  Ole  Man, 

An'  hoist  in  some  licker  with  me. 
I've  prospected  from  Butte,  Montana, 

Plum  down  thro'  to  old  Santa  Fe, 
An'  thar  ain't  a  man  in  the  whole  kentry, 

No  matter  how  much  he  would  give, 
Could  purchase  my  dog  thar,  old  Roger, 

(Here's  to  yer)  as  long  as  I  live. 


AND    OTHER    STORIES. 


I03 


AN  oij)  GAMBLER'S  SOLILOQUY  ON  A  DIRTY  CARD 


Mui-stained  and  torn,  upon  the  sidewalk  lying, 
Stripped  of  the  beauty  of  your  regal  parts, 

Yet  still  the  old  whirl  of  fortune's  wheel  defying, 
I  find  this  morn  —  the  tattered  queen  of  hearts. 


104          JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

Where  now  (I  wonder)  are  your  old  companions, 

The  fifty-one  inseparable  friends — 
In  beer  saloons,  or  Rocky  Mountain  canons, 

At  sea,  or  at  the  earth's  remotest  ends? 

Like  Israel's  tribe,   they're  tossed   about  and  scat 
tered, 

Kven  the  very  kings  might  prove  unclean. 
But  you,  old  queen  of  hearts,  tho'  mud-bespattered, 

Kvery  moment  prove  yourself  a  queen. 

Who  knows  but  sometimes  jeweled  fingers  shuffled 
The  pack  in  which  you  held  a  solid  place; 

Who  knows  what  placid  tempers  you  have  ruffled 
At  whist,  by  trumping  an  obtrusive  ace. 

And  when  the  higher  honors  all  were  hoarded, 
And  you  were  queen  indeed  of  all  the  pack, 

How  proudly  did  you  take  the  last  trick  boarded, 
.How  like  a  woman  did  you  win  the  Jack! 

And  then,  how  fondly  was  your  face  regarded 
By  him  who  first  beheld  the  crimson  blush 

Of  you,  when  he  had  doubtingly  discarded 
A  spade,  and  drawn  to  hearts  to  "fill  a  flush." 

And  then,  they  say  that  cards  are  Evil's  marrow, 
And  card  players  sometimes  commit  a  sin. 

But  you,  old  girl — yes,  you,  when  turned  to  faro, 
You  sometimes  caused  '  'stack  of  blues"  to  win. 

I  might  recall  the  evenings  blithe  and  merry 
We  passed  beneath  the  sparkling  chandelier; 

You  played  high  up  with  rouge  et  noir  and  sherry, 
But  you  drooped  at  last  to  pinochle  and  beer. 


AND   OTHER    STORIES. 


105 


And  then,  ah!  well,  no  sermon  need  I  utter, 
Enough  to  know  you  lost  your  winning  arts, 

And  poor  and  helpless  sank  into  the  gutter 
L,ike  many  other  luckless  queen  of  hearts. 


A  TRAGEDY. 

IN   ONE   ACT. 

THE  Spring  poet  entered  the  sanctum , 
He  prated  of  flowers  and  doves, 
The  editor,  toyed  with  the  dumb  bells, 
And  fondled  the  boxing  gloves. 
The  "  Devil"  unchained  the  yaller  dog, 
The  "compositor"  loaded  the  gun, 
The  casket  cost  fifteen  dollars 
And  the  funeral  occurs  at  one. 


106  JIM   MARSH  ALT, 'S   NKW   PIANNER 


AND   OTHER   STORIES  107 


THAT  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 

A  PARODY. 

H  the  snow,  that  beautiful  snow," 
That  flies  in  your  face,  wherever  you 

go, 

That's  twisted   and   whirled   in  some 
<fr  "dizzy"  old  street 

Till  it  blinds  your  poor  eyes  and  freezes  your  feet. 
It's  all  very  fine,  that  "  beautiful  snow," 
If  you've  cash  in  your  pocket  and  somewhere  to  go. 
But  the  poet  was  born  in  summer,  I  know, 
That  finds  something  pretty  in  ' '  beautiful  snow. ' ' 

' '  Beautiful, "  is  it  ?     Humph  !    ' '  Beautiful  snow, ' ' 
When  ' '  it  falls  on  a  sinner,  nowhere  to  go. ' ' 
It  seems  to  me,  now  (I'm  a  practical  man, 
I'm  no  love-sick  damsel  or  innocent  lamb, 
Therefore  I  cannot  be  expected,  you  know, 
To  stand  on  my  hea<3  about  "  beautiful  snow  ") — 
It  seems  to  me,  now,  that  this  sucker  should  go 
And  bury  himself  in  his  "  beautiful  snow." 

"  Beautiful "  is  it,  eh? — "  beautiful  snow/' 
The  thermometer  just  ten  degrees  below, 
Your  overcoat  "  hocked,"  not  a  cent  in  your  "kick," 
And  "  beautiful  snow  "  till  you  can't  see  a  brick 


io8 


JIM   MARSH AU/S   NEW   PIANNER 


In  the  sidewalks,  around  in  some  ' '  tart ' '  country 

lown, 

And  that  "  beautiful  snow  "  is  still  coming  down. 
Why,  if  I  had  a  room  with  a  fire  all  aglow, 
I  could  envy  the  "crank"  who  wrote  "Beautiful 

Snow." 

"  Beautiful  snow  from  the  heaven  above, 

Pure  as  an  angel,  gentle  as  love." 

I  wish  they  would  keep  it  in  heaven,  not  throw 

So  much  down  on  earth  of  that  * '  beautiful  snow. ' ' 

Gentle  as  love  ?  how  can  they  say  so; 

See  how  it  sticks,  it  never  will  go. 

March,  April  and  May  may  come  and  may  go, 

And  still  we'll  be  blessed  with  d d  "beautiful 

snow." 


AND  OTHER  STORIES.  1 09 


"  JEFF  AND  JOE. 


A   TRUE   INCIDENT 

OF 
CREEDE   CAMP,    COLORADO. 


NO  WED   Joe  Simmons?      Course 
I  did. 

Knowed  him  'fore  he  up  an'  slid 

'Cross  the  range  that  blustery  day. 

Did  he  slide  ?     Well  I  should  say ! 

Not  the  way  you  mean  it,  though, 
Up  the  hill  we  toted  Joe, 
An'  we  laid  him  'neath  the  rocks. 
Death  had  called  the  turn,  "  Jack  Box." 
'Fore  he  cashed  in  Jeff  Smith  come, 
Asked  if  no  thin'  could  be  done. 
Jeff,  yer  see,  thought  well  of  Joe — 
Knowed  him  thirty  years  or  so, 


110  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 

Pal'd  together  down  below. 
Joe  liked  Jeff  and  Jeff  liked  Joe, 
An'  through  all  the  changin'  years, 
Sheered  each  other's  smiles  and  tears. 

Worked  together,  tooth  and  nail, 
Punchin'  cattle  up  the  trail  ; 
Dealt  the  old  thing;  tackled  bluff; 
Each  one  blowed  the  other's  stuff, 
An'  when  one  got  in  the  hole, 
T'other  just  dug  up  the  roll. 
So  the  gang  all  come  to  know 
Joe  liked  Jeff  an'  Jeff  liked  Joe. 

When  the  big  excitement  came 
Every  man  that  played  a  game, 
Square  or  sure,  that  could  succeed, 
Packed  his  grip  and  went  to  Creede, 
Gamblers,  miners,  suckers,  marks, 
Spieler,  macers,  bunco  sharks, 
Men  of  money,  men  of  greed — 
Every  one  fetched  up  in  Creede. 
An'  with  all  this  human  show 
To  the  front  came  Jeff  and  Joe, 
Opened  up  the  "  Orleans  Club/1 
Slept  on  tables,  cooked  their  grub, 
An'  commenced  to  ' '  cop  the  dough, " 
Till  old  Death  showed  up  for  Joe. 
Jeff  dropped  in  to  see  the  end 
Of  his  staunch  old  pal  an'  friend. 
For,  yer  see,  he  wished  to  know 
The  last  wishes  of  poor  Joe. 


AND   OTHKR   STORIES.  Hi 

"  Hallo,  Joe,  yer  gainin'  ground," 
Jeff  remarked,  a  lookin'  round, 
But  Joe  answered :  ' '  Yes,  the  change 
Soon' 11  take  me  'cross  the  range. 
But,  old  pal,  before  I  go 
Just  you  answer,  yes  or  no, 
If  I  ever  throwed  a  friend, 
Didn  1 1  stay  to  the  end 
Through  the  toughest  of  the  tough? 
Did  I  ever  take  a  bluff  ? 
Did  I,  through  my  whole  life  long, 
Ever  do  a  friend  a  wrong  ? 
Ever  treat  a  poor  cuss  mean  ? 
Haint  I  anteed  my  last  bean  ? 
Can  you  show  me  airy  place 
Where  I  weakened  in  the  race  ? 
Tell  me,  Jeff — my  race  is  run.  ' 
And  Jeff  answered:  "  Nary  one." 

"  Well,''  said  Joe,  "  I  m  glad  of  that; 
It  comes  easy  to  stand  pat. 
When  you  know  that  you  ve  done  right, 
Even  Death  itself  looks  bright. 
So,  old  boy,  don't  preach  or  pray; 
Keep  the  gospel  sharks  away — 
It's  no  use  to  call  them  late 
Just  to  boost  me  through  the  gate. 
Let  the  boys  just  gather  'round 
When  I  am  planted  in  the  ground, 
From  each  bottle  knock  the  neck, 
Fill  each  glass  with  Pommery  Sec; 


112  JIM   MARSH AU/S   NKW   PIANXEH 

Let  each  staunch  friend  drink  this  toast: 

'  Here's  to  old  Joe  Simmons'  ghost  !' 

In  hereafter,  if  there  be 

Such  a  place  for  you  and  me, 

Let  the  gang,  all  hand  in  hand, 

A  jolly,  good  an'  jovial  band, 

Open  out,  an'  all  in  line, 

Sing  together  '  Auld  Lang  Syne.'  " 

Jeff  said:  "Joe,  it  shall  be  done." 

And  Joe  answered:  "  Let  her  come  !" 

Maybe  you  don't  think  that  we 
Kept  in  all  sincerity 
Jeff's  last  promise  to  poor  Joe  ! 
Up  the  hill  through  blinding  snow 
Came  the  wagon  with  the  box. 
Up  the  mountain,  'round  the  rocks, 
John  Keneavy,  Hugh  Mohan 
An'  old  boy  Jeff  led  the  van; 
Up  the  mountain,  through  the  snow, 
Till  they  reached  the  grave  of  Joe. 
There,  with  heads  uncovered  all, 
Jeff  Smith  opened  up  the  ball 
An'  asked  if  anybody  there 
Could  say  Joe  Simmons  wasn't  square, 
Or  ever  yet  a  wrong  had  done 
To  friend.     All  answered:  "  Nary  one." 

4 '  Well, ' '  Jeff  replied,   ' '  This  is  the  end 
Of  old  Joe  Simmons,  my  best  friend. 
I  promised  him  I'd  do  my  best, 
An'  with  the  gang  lay  him  to  rest. 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

Now  fill  your  glasses,  fall  in  line, 
An'  sing  *  The  Days  of  Auld  I^angSyne.'  ' 
They  drank  an'  sang.    The  pure  white  snow 
Fell  softly  on  the  grave  of  Joe. 


An'  as  for  Jeff — well,  I  may  say, 
No  better  man  exists  to-day. 
I  don't  mean  good  the  way  you  do — 
No,  not  religious — only  true. 
True  to  himself,  true  to  his  friend; 
Don't  quit  or  weaken  to  the  end. 
An'  I  can  swear,  if  any  can, 
That  Jeff  will  help  his  fellow  man. 
An'  here  I  thank  him — do  you  see  ? 
kindness  he  has  shown  to  me. 


JIM    MARSHAIJ/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

An'  this  I'll  say,  when  all  is  o'er, 
An'  Jeff  has  crossed  to  t'other  shore, 
I  only  hope  that  you  and  me 
May  stand  as  good  a  chance  as  he. 

The  big  Book  says — that  is  I  think 
It  says — that  ' '  whoso  giveth  drink 
And  food  to  even  one  of  these," 
The  Saviour  he  is  sure  to  please. 
An'  sky-pilots  say  this  is  so, 
But  then,  of  course,  I  do  not  know 
That  either  they  or  I  can  learn 
A  sinner  how  to  call  the  turn. 
But  this  I  do  know,  every  time, 
(An'  you  can  bet  I'm  dead  in  line,) 
That  whoso  giveth  up  his  pelf 
For  charity  will  please  himself. 
I've  heard  it  said,  time  and  agin, 
That  charity  can  cover  sin. 
But  then,  of  course,  I  do  not  know 
If  this  applies  to  Jeff  an'  Joe. 
I  know  that  I'm  a  wicked  chap 
Of  course,  an'  I  don't  care  a  rap 
About  these  Christians — do  you  see?- 
That's  catalogued  as  "  Pharisee,'' 
Or  who  repent  on  the  last  day, 
Then  get  their  wings  and  soar  away. 
I'd  rather  (if  I  was  allowed) 
Fall  in  with  the  poor  sinners'  crowd. 
I  am  not  stuck  on  those  that  teach, 
Or  who  don't  practice  what  they  preacV. 


AND  OTHKR   STORIKS.  1 15 

No  man  can  tell  me  where  I'll  go 
When  I  cash  in  my  checks,  and  so 
I  know  that  I  am  prone  to  sin 
But  when  I'  m  called  on  to  cash  in 
I  hope  I'll  have  an  equal  show 
With  sinners  just  like  Jeff  an'  Joe. 

CREKDE  CAMP,  COLORADO,  March  27th,  1892. 


ir6  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANN^R 


B.  P.  0.  E. 


AND   OTHER   STORIKS.  1 17 


B.  P.  0.  E. 

B.  P.  O.  B.,  what  a   great  world  of  meaning 
Contained  in  these  letters,  to  each  one  who  knows 
The  power  of  affection,  the  great  depth  of  feeling, 
The  good  to  the  world,  which  these  trifles  disclose. 
How  they  shed  the  sunshine  through  the  invalid's 

window. 

They  comfort  the  mother,  the  sister  and  wife, 
And  soften  the  grief  of  the  widow  and  orphan, 
Who  seem  to  have  given  up  more  than  their  life. 

B.  P.  O.  K.,  who  is  there  that's  not  welcome 
To  join  in  their  sports,  at  reception  or  ball, 
And  who  has  not  met  a  beneficent  greeting, 
At  the  Sunday  night  socials  within  their  old  hall  ? 
Who  (ere  he  went  home  in  the  grey  of  the  morning) 
Has  stood  'round  the  room  in  that  glittering  line, 
And — cordially  grasping  the  hand  of  a  brother, 
Has  echo'd  the  chorus  of  dear  "Auld  I/ang  Syne  ?" 

B.  P.  O.  B.,  who  has  stood  in  the  circle 
With  glass  in  his  hand,  in  that  stately  old  hall, 
And  tossed  off  a  bumper  "To  Our  Absent  Brothers," 
But  felt  that  (in  spirit)  he  was  with  them  all, 
That  the   souls  of  the  dear  ones  we  love  most  to 
honor, 


n8  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

The  absent  ones,  far  o'er  the  billowy  sea, 

The  sister,  or  wife  of  some  dear  absent  brother, 

Was  blessing  that  talismen,  B.  P.  O.  E. 

B.  P.  O.  E.,  a  bright  halo  of  glory 

Surrounds  the  Elk  Antlers,  thy  escutcheon's  claim, 

And  the  deeds  of  thy  brothers  are  echo'd  in  story, 

From  the  Pacific  slope  to  the  old  State  of  Maine, 

Wherever  the  weary,  the  poor,  or  afflicted, 

Have  stretched  forth  a  hand,  thou  wert  ever  found 

near, 

To  assuage  the  deep  grief  of  the  widow  and  orphan, 
To  soften  the  heart,  and  to  chasten  the  tear. 

B.  P.  O.  E.,  all  the  world  must  applaud  you, 
And  honor  the  precept  that  leads  in  the  van. 
Be  upright  and  noble,  no  power  can  withstand  you, 
You  represent  love  to  your  dear  brother  man, 
And  when  each  shall  pass  o'er  the  dark  blue  Aegean, 
And  stand  on  the  shores  of  yon  shimmering  sea, 
May  the  grandest  of  epitaphs  brighten  his  record, 
Those  Hieroglyphics   B.  P.  O.  and  E. 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


CHARITY,  JUSTICE,  BROTHERLY 
LOVE  AND  FIDELITY. 

From  East  to  West,  from  North  to  South,  we  gather 

Our  loyalty  to  prove 
To   sister,  mother,  brother,   and  to  father, 

A  harbinger  of  Love. 
And  meeting  here  within  this  hall,  this  evening, 

Abroad  we  send 
To  all  mankind,  upon  the  morrow  greeting, 

A  Brother  and  a  Friend. 

What   recks   us   if   the   Kings   and   Queens   now 
reigning 

Make  pride  their  boast; 
What  recks  us  if  the  tyrant,  Love  disdaining, 

Leans  on  His  host. 
Though  all  the  world,  with  pride  so  unrelenting, 

Lead  in  the  van, 
We  stand  within  this  Circle,  representing 

Man's  Brotherhood  to  Man. 
With  Charity  to  all,  go  tell  the  story 

Throughout  the  world, 


120  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR 

That  pride  of  birth,  power,  wealth,  deceit,  vainglory, 

To  nothingness  are  hurled, 
We  take  cognizance  of  no  man's  position; 

Our  only  school 
To  gauge  the  worth  of  pauper,  or  patrician, 

Is  the  Golden  Rule. 
And  Justice,  that  blind  Goddess,  like  no  other, 

She  rules  our  land, 
Decrees  that  all  the  faults  of  our  weak  brothers, 

Be  written  on  the  sand, 
Their  virtues  ineffacably  written 

On  the  page  of  memory, 
Comes  to  us  like  the  silver  sheen  of  moonlight 

Aslant  a  summer  sea. 
Brotherly  Love  !     Ah,  what  a  recollection, 

It  brings  to  all 
A  grand,  far-reaching  wealth  of  pure  affection 

Holds  us  in  thrall. 

Fill  high  the  glass,  while  "Auld  Lang  Syne  "  we're 
singing, 

In  roundelay; 
And  let  the  toast  up  to  the  roof  go  ringing: 

"  Our  brothers  far  away.'' 
Fidelity  embraces  all  the  others; 

If  each  one  knew 
And  practised  that  fidelity  to  others, 

Staunch,  firm  and  true, 
This  world  would  be  the  better  for  it,  surely 

We'd  all  be  ju^t, 
And  in  each  station  that  we  fill  so  poorly, 

We'd  rule  in  trust. 


AND  OTHER   STORIES.  121 

And,  Brother,  when  you  leave  a  Lodge  of  Sorrow, 

With  aching  heart, 
And  go  again  within  the  world  to-morrow, 

To  play  a  part, 
Take  each  with  him  unto  his  little  haven, 

In  cot  or  hall, 
By  memory  on  each  faithful  heart  engraven: 

' '  Love  conquers  all. '  * 

And  thou,  poor  mother,  for  a  lost  Elk  weeping, 

By  sad  Atlantic  laid, 
Or  distant  Sacramento,  wildly  leaping, 

Beneath  its  orange  shade, 
Lament  him  not,  no  love  can  make  immortal 

The  span  of  life; 
And  never  hero  entered  heavenly  portal 

From  grander  strife. 
*  *  *  *  * 

And  glories  greater  than  heraldic  splendors 

His  house  may  claim, 
When  Charity  shall  speak  of  her  defenders 

She'll  breathe  his  name. 


122  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNHR 


AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


A  CASE  EQUAL. 


PARSON  and  Gambler  got  in  a  tangle 
on  the  increase  of  crime,  and  how 
souls  could  be  wrecked, 

While  ' 'The  Man  Up  a  Tree"  didn't 
mix  in  the  wrangle,  but  listened, 
and  thought  about  cause  and  effect. 

Each  one  seemed  wrapped  up  in  his  own  small 
dominion,  and  neither  the  other's  shortcomings 
could  see, 

And  each  one  was  righteous,  in  his  own  opinion; 

At  least  so  it  looked  to  "The  Man  Up  a  Tree." 

"You  admit,"  said  the  parson,  "that  gambling  is 
vicious,  that  it  leads  to  suicide,  lying  and  vice, 

That  playing  at  cards  is  at  all  times  pernicious; 
that  its  ultimatum  by  no  means  is  nice. 

While  true  Christianity,  pure  and  undying,  enno 
bles  the  earth  with  its  lesson  of  love, 

A.iid  all  its  disciples,  with  each  other  vying,  befitting 
themselves  for  the  mansions  above." 

"Yes,  true  Christianity,  on  the  dead  level's  a 
mighty  good  game  when  its  played  on  the 
square, 

But  once  in  a  while  you  will  find  that  the  devil  en- 
sconses  himself  in  the  'Lookout's  high  chair,' 


124  JIM   MARSH AU/S   NEW   PIANNKR 

The  barefooted  Saviour  in  charity's  labour,  I  always 
admired  for  his  hatred  of  pelf, 

And  this  nice  little  game  about  loving  your  neigh 
bor,  why  don't  you  (  stand  pat '  on  that,  Par 
son,  yourself?" 

"  I  do,"  said  the  parson,  "  I  do  love  my  neighbor  ; 

I  preach  the  good  tidings  that  God  is  all  love  ; 
I  send  it  abroad  by  my  own  loving  labor,  as  Noah 

from  the  ark  sent  the  carrier  dove, 
'  Be   kindly  intentioned  one  toward   another  with 

brotherly  love  '  is  my  favorite  text, 
And  *  love  one  another,'  we  do  this,  my  brother,  no 

matter  how  sorely  our  souls  may  be  vexed." 

' '  Of  course  '  Old  John  Rogers '  was  burned  for 
affection  and  'Old  Michael  Servitus '  killed  just 
for  love, 

While  '  Joan  of  Arc  '  was  another  selection  in  'paving 
your  way  to  the  mansions  above.' 

*  John  Wy  cliff  e,'  'JohnHuss,'  and  poor  old  'Sara 
Dyer,'  and  'Scotland's  young  queen' was  ac 
cursed  by  '  John  Knox, ' 

And  those  '  Salem  witches  '  you  burned  with  slow 
fire — pray  was  it  for  love  that  their  turn  came 
'Jack-Box?'  " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  parson,  "  mistakes  in  judicious 
are  made  in  all  lands,  in  old  age  and  in  youth." 

"I  know,'1  said  the  gambler,  "  but  it  is  pernicious 
to  'copper  the  turn, '  that  is  known  as  plain  truth, 

Don't  play  'single  out' — give  each  man  his  opinion; 
in  each  of  our  paths  there's  a  big  stumbling  block 


AND   OTHER   STORIES.  125 

But  truth  soars  above  us,    on  shadowy  pinions,  so 
let's  play  it  out,  right  from  '  soda  to  hoc.' 

We're  each  of  us  gamblers,  while  I  may  play  poker, 

and  you  have   your  Bible,   your   sermon   and 

'guff,' 
I  may  win  my  money  by  '  hiding  the  joker,'  while  on 

human  defects  you  can  *  get  in  your  bluff. ' 
We're  both  non-producers,  and  instead  of  giving  a 

thing  to  this  world  it  is  our  little  plan 
To  calculate  how  we  can  each  make  a  living,  upon 

the  defects  of  our  dear  brother  man. 
This  world  is  a  good  one,  my  dear  Christian  brother, 

if  every  man  does  what  he  thinks  is  just  right. 
All  men  are  created  to  prey  on  each  other,  and  no 

man  should  stand  in  another  man's  light; 
Of  God's  holy  love,  of  the  Christian's  bright  heaven, 

you  claim  to  know  all  of  these  good  things  you 

teach , 
While  I  am  imbued  with  a  little  weak  leaven,  and 

only  can  practice  just  what  I  can  preach." 

And  each  went  his  way  on  his  life's  little  mission; 

to  ' '  the  man  up  a  tree ' '   they  were  both  lost 

to  sight, 
Who  mused  o'er  the  basis  of  each  proposition;  and 

thought  that  both  Parson  and  Gambler  were 

right. 
If  each  one  in  this  world  would  "  love  one  another," 

and  neither  the  other's  short-comings  could  see, 
'Twould  all  be  * '  case  equal ' '  to  man  and  his  brother 

— at  least  so  it  looks  to  ' '  the  man  up  a  tree.  ' 


126  JIM   MARSHAU/S   NEW   PIANNER 


OH,  WAT  T'  'ELL. 

PPETITE  SAM. 
Not  wuth  a  dam, 
'N  the  gang  said, 
"  Better  be  dead." 
Allus  'd  shirk 

All  kinds  of  work. 

Regular  snooze, 

Punishin'  booze; 

But,  I  don'no, 

Might  git  a  show, 

Never  can  tell 

Oh!  wat  t'  'ell. 

Thro'  every  camp, 
All  called  him  scamp, 
Duffer  'n  cheat, 
Dead  on  the  beat; 
Not  a  good  word 
Ever  was  heard 
From  any  man 
'Bout  Appetite  Sam. 
Old  ne'er  do  well, 
Oh,  wat  t'  ell. 


AND   OTHER  STORIES.  127 

Once  an  ole  sport, 
Of  the  right  sort- 
Daniels,  by  name, 
Fly  'n  dead  game — • 
Dropped  on  the  street, 
Used  up,  dead  beat; 
Sam  took  him  home, 
Nursed  him  alone, 
Treated  him  well, 
Oh,  wat  t'   'ell. 

Toted  'm  'round, 
Where  one  was  found, 
You'd  see  the  other, 
Just  like  a  brother. 
Tom  Daniels  knew 
Sam  was  true  blue; 
Nursed  him  for  years, 
Shared  all  his  tears. 
'N  wen  Tom  died, 
Sam  only  cried, 
Buried  him  well, 
Oh,  wat  t'  'ell. 

Sam  can  be  found 
Wanderin'  'round, 
Silent,  alone, 
No  friend,  no  home, 
Walkin'  the  street, 
Called  a  "dead  beat," 
"  Stiff,"   •'  Ne'er  do  well,'1 
Oh,  wat  t'    ell. 


128  JI1>:   MARSHAU/S   NKW   PIANNKR 

Mfcbbe,  some  day, 
Who  •  U  dare  to  say, 
Wen  the  Great  One 
Asks  wat  we've  done; 
Wen  Pharisees, 
Thicker  'n  bees, 
Tell  of  good  deeds, 
Boast  of  their  creeds, 
Appetite  Sam 
Says,  "  Here  I  am, 
Played  out,  no  good, 
Did  best  I  could." 
Will  it  be  well  ? 
Oh,  wat  t'   'ell. 


8 


AND    OTHER    STORIES.  129 


SPOKANE. 


RADIOED  midst  the  beryled  hills, 
Musical  with  gushing  rills, 
Midway  in  the  Cascade's  span 
In  her  beauty  lies  Spokane ; 
Nature  ne'er  vouchsafed  to  one 

Product  of  our  Washington, 

Town  or  city,  known  to  man, 

Blessings  that  she  did  Spokane. 

Speeds  the  river's  silver -sheen, 

Onward  from  the  Cceur  d'Aleiie, 

Wildly  dashing  o'er  the  span 

Called  the  falls  of  Mad  Spokane; 

Rushing,  gushing,  surging  wild, 

Fearless,  pure  and  undefiled, 

Dashing,  flashing  everywhere, 

Playing,  spraying  here  and  there; 

Whirling,  pearling,  hurtling. 

Foamy  froth  encircling, 

Roaring,  pouring,  tumbling  down, 

Racing,  chasing  thro'  the  town, 


130  JIM  MARSHALL'S  NEW  PIANNKR. 

Spurning  e'en  its  rocky  ban, 
Dancing,  prancing,  wild  Spokane. 
Here  the  hardy  pioneer 
Greets  you  with  a  hearty  cheer, 
Welcoming  the  coming  man 
To  a  home  in  sweet  Spokane. 
Here  the  Siwash — nature  s  child — 
All  untutored,  free  and  wild, 
Wonderingly  views  each  plan 
To  embellish  sweet  Spokane. 
Specimens  from  everywhere, 
Old  and  young,  false,  fair  and  square, 
Miner,  blacksmith,  partisan, 
Products  cosmopolitan ; 
*       Here  a  banker  in  his  bank, 

Here  a  sage  and  there  a  crank, 

All  a  jumble,  rush  and  jam, 

There  you  have  it — that's  Spokane. 


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